


there should be stars for great wars like ours

by MelikaElena



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/pseuds/MelikaElena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the 74th Annual Hunger Games both Blake siblings are reaped, until Clarke Griffin volunteers for Octavia Blake. </p><p>Nobody knows why and Bellamy Blake isn't going to take Clarke's silence as his answer. He'll find out the truth if it's the last-- and it probably will be-- thing he ever does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Why did you volunteer? Answer me!”_

Clarke rolled her eyes. Considering that was the third time she’d heard the question in the past three hours—and in nearly the exact same tone—she was far from intimidated.

“Does it matter why?” She flatly asked the scowling, furious boy next to her. “Your precious sister is safe.”

Her lack of answer seemed to set him off even more. “I’m afraid that bullshit isn’t good enough for me, Princess,” he said. “Give me a real answer. What sort of strings are attached to this? What debt do you want my family to owe you?”

Clarke nearly flinched at the last question, but her composure held fast. She supposed she could thank being the daughter—step-daughter or otherwise—of the mayor helped with that. “There are no strings,” she said coolly, pouring herself a glass of water, ignoring the disgusting amount of food on the long, mahogany table. “And even if there were,” she said, an eyebrow raised, almost enjoying the discomfort of the Seam boy, “what exactly would you be able to do about it, Bellamy Blake?”

“You’re disgusting,” he spat at her, at her amusement, at her blonde hair and blue eyes and classic Merchant looks. “You get off on this, don’t you? This game?”

“Then I must be no different than those from the Capitol,” Clarke said, her voice a touch rougher. “But then again, to you I’m no better than them, am I?”

Bellamy, with a keen understanding that every word they said was being monitored, got up from the table and leaned down into her personal space. Except for the forced handshake they shared on stage, Clarke had never been this close to the dangerous, strong Seam boy before. “No, Princess,” he whispered, intentionally brushing his lips against her ear lobe, “you’re worse.”

She suppressed a shudder.

He sauntered out of the room, and to Clarke’s surprise—and disappointment—he didn’t even slam the door on his way out.

Clarke almost laughed as she thought about his words. Getting off on what? On what games? You mean the ones they were in, always in, or the most dangerous one of all, the one they were headed towards traveling at a speed of hundreds of miles an hour?

Clarke scoffed. Only Bellamy Blake could joke about the Hunger Games.

* * *

He didn’t speak to her after that, not through the opening ceremonies when they wore outfits that went up in flames, matching the wildness of Bellamy’s curls and the rage that flashed through his eyes as he made eye contact with President Dante; he didn’t speak to her during any of the training sessions, where Clarke stuck to the survival skills stations and he the weaponry; he didn’t speak to her when they received their scores, Bellamy a 10 and Clarke an 8.

He did, however, speak to her after their interviews, when his fists clenched and unclenched as he absolutely ached to throw her against a wall and strangle the life out of her.

“What the _fuck_ was that out there?” Bellamy raged, his jaw so taut that Clarke thought he would break it.

Clarke rolled her eyes. “That was me getting us sponsors,” she said, in that same, bored tone she tended to use on him. There was an instinct inside of her that warned against responding to Bellamy’s passion with her own—she had a feeling together they’d set the whole Capitol ablaze. “Helping us.” She added, just to be safe, “It wasn’t real, obviously.”

“Helping us?” Bellamy asked with a strangled, hysterical little laugh. “You humiliated us!” _You humiliated me._

“I did no such thing,” Clarke said. “I made us both irresistible to the public. They’re eating that shit up.”

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t do this alone.” He deduced. He whirled on their mentor. “Really, Kane? Neither of you had the decency to tell me this was planned!”

Marcus Kane, District 12’s sole victor, rolled his eyes and pushed a long lock of hair out of his face. “We wanted your surprise to be genuine,” he said smoothly, without a hint of regret. “It would seem more authentic that way.”

“And yet you didn’t decide to keep up this charade?” Bellamy sneered. “Why didn’t you just lie to me throughout the whole Games, hmm?”

“Clarke vouched for you,” Kane said. “She said that you should be told after the initial announcement of her—infatuation, with you. She said you would be able to pull it off.”

“So I have to,” Bellamy shook his head, “pretend to be in love with her as well?”

“If you want to make it home to Octavia,” Clarke said, “you will.”

Bellamy shook his head again, and stomped out of the room.

This time he slammed the door.

* * *

_“Why did you volunteer? Answer me!”_

_Clarke gave her mother a bitter smile, shrugging. “You know why.”_

_Abby Griffin Jaha clutched at her daughter’s shoulders, long healer’s fingers digging in to the muscle. She shook her daughter. “This is revenge?” She searched her daughter’s eyes—her dead husband’s eyes. “For what happened with your father? Taking your own life is revenge?”_

_In the corner, by the door, Thelonious and Wells stood stoic and silent. Clarke met Wells’s eyes once and then flickered away. She was glad—tremendously glad—that for once the boys were called before the girls. If it were the reverse, she knew Wells would’ve volunteered in Bellamy’s place to go with her, and she couldn’t have that._

_“What better way to hurt you than to take away the thing you claim to love the most?” Clarke didn’t relish the cruel words she spoke to her mother—if anything, she felt numb inside. Already dead. This was why she had to go. She had less to lose than anyone._

_“Come along, Abby,” Thelonious said in that measured, imperial voice that Clarke used to admire, but now loathed. “Clarke doesn’t want us here.”_

_He pulled Abby away, who clung to him as though physically injured, but Wells darted forward, crushing Clarke into a hug. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he murmured to her. “I know there’s something else going on.”_

_Clarke didn’t say anything, but clutched him tighter. He always knew._

_She almost wanted to tell him to take care of her mom, look after her, but nausea swept through her, as it did every time the contradictory emotions of love and hate, adoration and disgust, swept through her at the thought of her mother._

_Clarke had gotten her revenge. She made her mother think she volunteered in place of Octavia Blake for the 74th Hunger Games out of spite for her mother, but that wasn’t it. That wasn’t even close._

“Kane told me why you volunteered,” his low voice echoed into the stillness and bounced off the concrete floor of the rooftop.  

Clarke, her head pillowed on her drawn knees, resolutely stared out in to the city, away from him. She didn’t answer.

“That’s pretty fucked up, Princess,” he said, much closer. To her surprise she felt him moving across from her, sliding down. He mimicked her posture. “You really hate your mom that much, do you?” He shook his head. “You Townies have it made,” he continued, his disgust a palpable, like another person right there with them, “what I wouldn’t give to have my mother alive again.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke said, voice rough, “not tonight. Okay? Tomorrow I can be the first on your kill list, if you’d like, but tonight can we just have peace?”

Bellamy fell quiet. “All right, Princess,” he said. “Consider this your final wish.”

Clarke smiled, slightly. “Thank you,” she said.

They sat in silence for a moment. “How are you feeling?” Bellamy asked, feeling awkward in the silence. He studied her drawn, pale face intently, looking at her as he never had—or let himself—before. “About tomorrow.”

Clarke shrugged. “I just…” she said. “When I die—whether it’s tomorrow or the next day, or whatever, I just want to die still being me.”

“And who’s that?” He asked quietly, his brown eyes almost soft as they looked at her.

Clarke held his gaze for a long moment before laughing weakly, brushing her hand across her eyes. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I guess—I guess I ran out of time before I figured it all out.”

In that moment, Clarke looked very young, too young to be someone who was only two years younger than he—Octavia’s age. In that moment, it was hard for him to hate her, hate her for her status, her sacrifice, her manipulations and lies. All of those things couldn’t outweigh the fact that at the end of the day, Clarke volunteered for Octavia. She saved her.

But why? It was a question that kept him up the past few nights.

Clarke smiled again, her eyes red rimmed and amused. It was like she saw right through him. “I can see those cogs turning, Bellamy Blake,” she said. “Don’t think so hard. Save your scheming for tomorrow.”

“Clarke—” He said, but she was already standing, and he was left looking up at her, her silhouette framed by the stars, barely visible with the glow from the city.

She outshone every light, real or electric.

“I volunteered for Octavia because it was the right thing to do,” she said softly. “It’s the truth. Leave it alone, Bellamy.”

And she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Why did you volunteer? Answer me!”_

_Clarke almost admired his restraint. She had assumed that he would’ve screamed it the moment she came on stage beside Bellamy, but it seemed that the former hot head of District 12 had mellowed if he waited until they were on the train speeding towards the Capitol—and when they were alone, no less._

_Clarke glanced toward the car door. Glass, their handler, had taken Bellamy on a tour of the train, intent upon “cleaning him up” to her standards, to the disgust of all three District 12 natives. She doubted he would be able to hear Marcus, but she wouldn’t rule it out. The man was a hunter, and probably had the senses of an animal._

_"Does it really matter, Marcus?” She drawled, intentionally using his first name. A couple years ago he would’ve been “Mr. Kane”, respected friend of both her parents, but those years were gone, as was that Clarke Griffin. “I’m here now.”_

_Marcus fixed her with a steady gaze, one that few people saw. Only Clarke and a handful of others in District 12 knew that Marcus Kane’s alcoholism was an act, a ploy so the Capitol would leave him in peace. It also kept him almost entirely friendless and alone, which made him invulnerable to the Capitol. He had no one left to lose._

_Yet, he still kept up secret, covert friendships with the Griffin and Jaha families. Marcus had grown up with Jake, Abby, Thelonious, and Gaia, Thelonious’s late wife and Wells’s mother._

_Clarke didn’t dislike the man—after all, he, as far as she knew, was not part of the group who had her father killed—yet she didn’t trust him, either, especially since she knew her mother and Thelonious did._

_“Clarke,” he said, speaking as though she were a small child again, “you understand that no one can help you where you’re going. Your mother, Thelonious, even I can’t—”_

_“I understand,” Clarke interrupted, striving to keep her voice even. Yelling and throwing tantrums would only cement his impression of her as a naïve, rebellious teenager. “I understood that when I volunteered, Marcus.”_

_He flinched at his first name. “Then, explain to me,” he said, “just exactly what you hope to accomplish with this suicide mission.”_

_He had hoped to shock her with those words, Clarke knew, to reference her impending death so bluntly, but it was nothing Clarke hadn’t imagined before. Instead, she gave him a steady look of her own, holding it until he looked away. She had realized since her father’s death that doing this to people gave her the advantage. People didn’t like it when she turned her father’s eyes on them. It made them uncomfortable. Guilty._

_In turn, it made her feel powerful. Strong._

_"Perhaps,” she said coldly, “you shouldn’t focus on why I did it, and instead focus on helping me—and Bellamy—survive.”_

_Kane looked back at her sharply. “The Blake’s,” he breathed. “What do they have on you?” He asked her. “Why are you so intent on protecting them?”_

_Clarke froze on the inside. Outwardly, she said coolly, “I’m not. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you, Marcus, of your obligation to protect both of us, that’s all.” She paused and said the words she knew he would eat up. “Wouldn’t want to send me home in a casket to my mother, would you?”_

_Kane’s expression changed into disgust. “I knew it,” he said. “This whole ploy—just to get back at your mother. Really, Clarke, how stupid could you be? Is your life really worth this—this power play?”_

_Clarke narrowed her eyes, opening her mouth to speak—_

_“Well!” The door burst open, and Glass, impeccably dressed, with her sleek, austere hair and precisely done make-up, strode in. A frown marred her smooth face. “This one is certainly a firecracker, isn’t he?” This was said in reference to Bellamy, who came into the room, looking freshly showered but otherwise not much different. Some makeover._

_Glass turned to Clarke and her face softened slightly. “Your turn, Miss Griffin,” she said. “Although being the mayor’s daughter—”_

_“Stepdaughter,” Clarke corrected, unable to help herself. She refused to look at Kane._

_"Stepdaughter,” Glass inclined her head. “You won’t need nearly as much work as Mr. Blake here.” She clapped her hands. “Which is good, since today is a big, big day! As will be every day after.”_

_Clarke gave her a wide, sunny smile. She had perfected them during her short stay at the mayor’s house. “Lead the way!” She said, eager to get out of the room, both men staring at her, trying to peer inside her head._

_She would be damned if she let either of them in._

* * *

On the day of the Games, Clarke woke early—against her better nature—and padded out into the common area. Kane was nowhere to be seen; as the Town Drunkard he was used to sleeping in and it was a habit he slipped into easily—but Bellamy was an early riser and was already there, staring at her, as if waiting.

“So.” He said, his voice rough with sleep. “How are we going to play this?” His nose crinkled up, almost endearingly. “This love story.”

Clarke shrugged, unfazed by the abrupt question. “You won’t have to do much,” she said. “If I survive the blood bath, I won’t follow you. I might try and join up with the Careers, recommend myself to patching them up if they have any injuries. Maybe you could, like, whisper my name longingly at the night sky,” she said this with a sarcastic flutter of eyelashes that made him scoff, “ for the benefit of the cameras, but otherwise you probably won’t see me at all.”

For some reason, this didn’t sit well with Bellamy. She saved his sister and he owed it to her to see her safe, at least for a little while—he still planned, after all, to be the one to get back to District 12—and Octavia.

“The Careers?” He asked. “Really?”

“I won’t actually help them,” Clarke said. “I figure, depending on the type of arena, I can concoct some sort of slow-acting poison that will slow them down. And by then I’ll be long gone.” At the look on his face, she amended, “I’ll run away.”

“Hmph.” He wasn’t convinced, but he had to admit it was a decent plan. “I still don’t like the idea of you hanging around with them, though. You never know when they’ll turn on you.”

He thought of some of the vicious careers he had seen the other day—Indra, Murphy, Tris, Delano. They would eat this princess alive.

“Hey,” Clarke said. He focused back on her. She always seemed to catch him unawares. And more eerie, she always seemed to read his mind. And Bellamy wasn’t the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Not the more vulnerable ones, anyway. “Don’t worry about me. Just worry about yourself.”

Everything about her confused him, unnerved him. Why was she so focused on him but so utterly unconcerned with her own well-being? “I don’t understand,” he said again. “Why, Clarke?”

Instead of shutting down, Clarke gave him a small smile.  It even seemed to reach her eyes. “If you can find me in there,” she said, referring to the arena, “maybe I’ll tell you.”

He nodded at her, dark eyes serious. She may have been joking, but his nod was a promise. He would find her.

Clarke flushed, slightly, and left. As Glass would say, it was a big, big day.

* * *

He looked for her face in the sky that night, his long, lean body huddled on a sturdy tree branch. At the Cornucopia, per Marcus Kane’s advice, Bellamy didn’t go for a pack, instead striping one off of a dead kid—shot dead by a Career, his back turned. Bellamy ran, trying to keep an eye out for Clarke, but he didn’t see her at all, no long, blonde braid anywhere in his peripheral.

The adrenaline didn’t allow for it, but much later, when he felt he was safe, he wondered if he should’ve tried harder to look for her. Protect her.

 _No_ , he told himself sternly. He had to look out for himself. It was the only way—he had to be the one who made it out of here. Octavia was counting on him. He was all she had left and vice versa.

_“Bellamy Blake!”_

_When his name was called, all he could think of was her. He had prepared himself for this moment—taking out as many slips as he did meant that being reaped was a distinct possibility—but he couldn’t prepare for the shock, the dismay, and the utter devastation on Octavia’s face._

_She didn’t scream, which he was grateful for—they were a loud, brash people, but he knew Octavia wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a show, of weakness. And living at the Orphans’ Home meant that they couldn’t afford to show weakness of any sort._

_When he died, what would she do? Who would protect her? Octavia was a tough sort, but now, instantly, Bellamy regretted forcing her to be so dependent upon him. What had he been thinking? Nothing but the short-term, the day-to-day survival. It was Seam instinct, but it had led him astray. He should’ve been preparing her for this inevitable moment, this fated separation._

_Back tall, face emotionless, he stalked to the stage. Mentally, he began to remove himself from the stage, from the district. He thought about the Capitol, about the Games, how he was going to survive—who he was going to have to become to do so. Bellamy Blake was many things, but he wasn’t naïve. He saw how the Victors’ had changed from their first interviews to their last. Even when you won the Hunger Games, you lost. What you gained was nothing compared to what you had to lose._

_He barely heard Glass chatter about the female tribute until he heard her name._

_“Octavia Blake!”_

_Bellamy staggered back on stage, as though someone had punched him in the gut. His sister stood, gasping, straining for air as though being choked, her mouth gaped, unable to understand how this had happened._

_She only had four slips. One for each year, the bare minimum. Bellamy turned furious eyes to the proprietors of the Home. That was all the slips she was supposed to have—Bellamy told them he would take out any additional slips in Octavia’s name so she wouldn’t have any more. One look at their greedy, guilty faces showed that they had gone against him, anyway._

_Bellamy thought, briefly, that they had better hope he wouldn’t win the Games, because if he did he was going to come back and kill them all—_

_Then he thought about the implications of what it meant of him as Victor and it was all he could do not to scream, cry, rage because Octavia was coming with him, she was_ coming with him _—_

_And then she was spared._

Bellamy clenched his fists. Against his better judgment, there was no way around it. He thought of Octavia. He thought of who he was to her, who she believed him to be. He knew he would have to change in order to survive, become someone who she might hate. But this… he could do this one last act of kindness. He could help Clarke Griffin survive, as long as he could.  

Her face didn’t appear in the sky. She was safe.

He tilted his face up to the artificial moon in the sky. “Clarke,” he whispered, one corner of his mouth curling up, recalling that morning. _Eat your heart out, Capitol._  “I’m coming for you.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“So,” the way that the flames flickered across the face of Murphy, a Career from District 3, made him seem all the more sinister, sharpening his already weasel-like features. Clarke missed her sketchbook; he would’ve been a fascinating subject. “You’re the first ever volunteer from District 12.”

Clarke, intently treating a gash on Tris’s arm, paused for a brief moment as she registered his comment, but then continued slowly to apply her medicinal remedy. A lot of her gambles had paid off—firstly, that the arena was a forest, chock full with different herbs and plants that she recognized from her studies at home and from the Botany station in the training center; secondly, that she was able to talk her way into the Career group based on her ability to help treat them.

Tonight they were all getting a standard, un-poisoned treatment to help gain trust and to establish her role as their helper, in exchange for protection. Then, the next day Clarke would concoct a paste with a slow-acting poison that would take several hours to kick in—and by then she would be long gone and they without an antidote.

Despite her plan working so far, that hardly meant that she was safe. And judging by the sly tone of Murphy’s non-question, it was clear she had to be on her guard both mentally and physically. “That’s right,” she said, wrapping Tris’s arm in gauze found in one of the many packs the Career’s claimed. Their ‘camp’ was the Cornucopia itself, and Clarke felt almost uneasy in the wide space that felt like a graveyard, although the Capitol had picked up the fallen bodies—twelve in all—much earlier.

“That was very brave of you,” Murphy said.

“Or very stupid,” Indra muttered, who, unfortunately, escaped from the blood bath completely unscathed. She was taking an inventory of all of their weapons, her dark eyes gleaming with pleasure as she laid out each one, carefully, in a neat pile.

“Or that,” Murphy said with a cocky little finger pointed in Indra’s direction. His gaze swung back to Clarke. “So why’d you do it? Sounds like you had it pretty good in District 12. Mayor’s step-kid—and before that, your parents were the head engineer of the mines and the head doctor of the entire district. Sounds like you were at the top of the food chain, really.”

Tris, younger than all of them at fourteen, piped up. “She did it for her partner,” she reminded him. “Bellamy Blake. Didn’t you watch her interview, Murphy? She’s in love with him.”

Clarke stayed silent, her head bowed, willing herself to flush. That was part of the plan, after all. She told Bellamy it was to get them sponsors, but really, that was only a bonus.

_“Even though you don’t deserve the advice, given your selfish actions,” Kane said, matter-of-factly, as he and Clarke waited for Bellamy to be done with his prep team on the night of the Opening Ceremonies, “I thought you should know that the Capitol won’t like your reasons for volunteering. This childish act of rebellion against such high-powered figures in your District looks… treasonous. Even if they are your parents.”_

_Clarke’s stomach seemed to drop. “I see,” she said, slowly, trying frantically to remain calm. Her feelings towards her mother were complicated, but she was damned if she let any of her actions hurt her mother or Wells or anyone else she cared about._

_And what of Bellamy and Octavia? Clarke knew how the Capitol worked, how they seemed to thrive on collateral damage, no matter how innocent. Clarke didn’t want them to have to pay for what she’d done as well, not when she’d tried so hard to save them…_

_“I’ll think of something,” she said, almost distractedly, her mind already working._

_But then, Bellamy came out, and he was scowling, dark and deadly in black leather, and Clarke wondered, frantically, how his body could have that much muscle on it when so much of the population was underfed and malnourished, how he could look that strong and powerful; oh, he was the opposite of what District 12 was known for, he was not scrawny or weak, he was defiant and cunning, and—_

_And the girl, Monroe, from District 2, walking by, gave him a long once over, licking her lips, a flash of something in her eyes that made Clarke’s nails dig into her palms because despite the fact that they barely knew each other, had barely spoken to each other throughout the years, she was protective, possessive of him, of Octavia, of this broken little family that she decided to fight for, to give her life for—_

_He was hers._

_And just like that, things clicked into place._

_She turned to Kane. “I have a plan,” she said. “I know what to do.”_

_Kane gave her a long look. “Don’t you always, Miss Griffin,” he said, with a bit of a sneer. Nevertheless, he nodded. “Tell me after the ceremonies.”_

_Clarke tried not to radiate nervous energy as she stepped up beside Bellamy on the chariot. Her hand was so close to his. She wondered, wildly, briefly, what would happen if she took it—_

_But her bravery only took her so far, and she would need all the courage she could get if she really was going to convince the world that she was madly in love with Bellamy Blake._

“You really expect us to believe,” Murphy crowed, “that you volunteered—to die, let’s be honest here—because you love this guy?”

Clarke nodded. “It’s the truth,” she said quietly. She thought about what she knew about love. She knew—and this hurt to admit—that her parents had it, even before everything. Her dad looked at her mom like she was the moon and the stars and her mother looked to her dad like he was her rock; every time she came home she would look for him first. A touchstone. “I do love him.”

Indra scrunched up her nose, disgusted.

Her district partner, Delano, looked at her quizzically. “How do you know?” He asked. “That it’s real.”

Clarke blinked. It wasn’t a question she was expecting from the imposing boy. “What do you mean?”

Delano shrugged. “How do you know if you really love him? That it’s worth it? I mean, we don’t even know if he loves you back.” To her relief, he didn’t ask if Bellamy loved her.

“It doesn’t matter if he loves me back,” Clarke shifted uneasily. “We haven’t really,” she stuttered, “talked about it much, anyway. Since I announced it. But it doesn’t matter whether he loves me back. Because I know I love him, for who he is.” She strained her memories for Bellamy, but surprisingly, it’s not that difficult. He’d always been there, in the background, and she, hyper observant, for better or worse, had noticed him. “He’s brave and loyal, tough, but kind. He—” She debated saying this, but figured that the Capitol had to know, anyway, that it was inevitable, “He loves his sister more than anything or anyone. The way he loves is selfless and all encompassing and,” she swallowed, “and I would be lucky to have him love me even just a little bit, like that.”

Clarke hoped that that would be enough to entice sponsors into donating to them. And a small part of her hoped, ashamed, that when he won Bellamy would hear what she said.

* * *

When he woke up, Bellamy saw a little brown bird.

He blinked, slowly. No, not a bird. A person. A little girl.

“Hi,” he whispered, hoarsely.

“Hi,” said the girl. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek, still ripe with baby fat. “You’re Bellamy. From District 12.”

He nodded, solemnly. “And you’re Charlotte,” he said. “From District 7.”

She nodded. “That’s how I got to be so good at climbing trees,” she said, referencing the district’s focus in lumber. “How are you so good?”

Bellamy shifted uneasily. He was good at it because he jumped the fence so often to go hunting, he had to teach himself to climb trees so larger predators wouldn’t be able to catch him. But obviously he couldn’t say that. “Just strong, I guess,” he muttered.

Luckily, Charlotte played along to his lame excuse. “I’ve been moving through the trees,” she said. “I saw Clarke.”

Bellamy’s head snapped up instinctively. “Yeah?” He said. “How—how is she?”

“She’s safe,” she said; then she wrinkled her nose. “She’s with the Careers.”  

Bellamy swore.

“I don’t like them,” Charlotte said. “But I like Clarke. She was nice to me—in the Training Center.”

Bellamy nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Everything he had observed and heard and seen from Clarke indicated that she was a selfless person. She was kind to anyone, even if they were someone who was supposed to kill her.

Then again, Charlotte was a little girl, barely thirteen, if that. Bellamy thought, for perhaps the thousandth time, how much he despised the Capitol for forcing children to fight each other for what—something that had happened decades ago by people who were long dead?

“Are you worried about her?” Charlotte said.

Bellamy knew it was part of Clarke’s plan to befriend the Careers; nevertheless, it still made him uneasy. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

Charlotte looked closely at him, peering at him a way that made him think of Octavia when she was much younger, half-wisdom and half-naivety—the ridiculous combination of traits that could only exist in children. “Do you love her?”

Bellamy froze. He hadn’t prepared for this, never thought he would be asked this question. Oh, in the back of his mind, he briefly thought if he managed to become the Victor that someone would ask him, Caesar, probably, but it was something he would think about if he had to, and no matter how determined he was to get back to Octavia, he never thought his victory was a certainty.

“I…” he trailed off. He had to stall. “It’s all happened so quickly,” he said. “I never thought… I never thought she even knew who I was.” It was true enough. She was leagues above him in every way, and Bellamy’s memories came to him with a clarity that startled him—Clarke at school, tutoring Seam and Merchant kids alike; Clarke around town, stopping to ask people about the health of their parents or children or friends; Clarke daring to go in The Hob, covering up her blonde hair with a cap, a couple tendrils spilling out, as she traded (with no negotiating) for herbs and medicine that she wasn’t technically allowed to have. She encouraged people to overcharge her, in such a way that they never felt as though it was charity.

Bellamy felt his mouth go dry. And he knew it wasn’t purely due to dehydration.

“Maybe when you see her again,” Charlotte said gently, “you’ll know.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy said. He turned bright, dark eyes to Charlotte. “Will you take me to where she is?” He asked.

Charlotte nodded eagerly. 


	4. Chapter 4

_“Why did you volunteer, baby?”_

_Clarke blinked once, twice, eyes bleary as they stared into ocean blue eyes that were identical to hers._

_"Daddy?” She whispered._

_"Hi, there,” Jake Griffin smiled, benevolent as ever. They were at home, in District 12, in the apartment above the apothecary where her mother worked and practiced. He was by her bed side, stroking her hair, something he hadn’t done for years, not since she was a little girl and needed to be put to bed with a story and a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “But I’d hoped we wouldn’t meet like this. And so soon.” He shook his head. “What are you doing here, Clarke? In the Hunger Games?”_

_"Daddy, I…” Clarke swallowed, a lump in her throat. Dimly, Clarke was aware that this wasn’t real, that she was only dreaming, but she so badly wanted it to be real that she didn’t question it. “I had to do it.”_

_"You didn’t have to,” he said. “The Blake’s aren’t your responsibility.”_

_"But they are,” she insisted. “If only you knew…”_

_"Knew what, Clarke?” Her father asked. He shook his head. “You’ve always done this,” he said. “Ever since you were little. It was either injured birds or your sick Seam classmates… you’ve always taken it upon yourself to help others, Clarke. But sometimes you do so at the expense of yourself.” Jake looked sad. “And now you’re going to die for it. You’ve given up.”_

_Clarke scowled. “It’s only right, Dad,” she said fiercely. “It’s not me giving up, it’s me repaying a debt.”_

_"A debt,” Jake asked. “To Octavia Blake? Or to Bellamy?”_

_Clarke shook her head. “Neither,” she said. “To Aurora Blake.”_

_Jake’s hands stilled in her hair and he retracted them all together. “She’s dead,” he said._

_"Yes,” Clarke said. “And it’s my fault.”_

_"Clarke,” her father said._

_Clarke closed her eyes._

_"I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” her father said. “We’ll make this right.”_

_Clarke stiffened. Her father was dead. He couldn’t help her. This was only a dream._

_"I have to go back,” she said._

_Her father nodded in understanding. He gave her a sad smile. “I know,” he said. “But are you sure? You’re safe here. When you leave, I can’t protect you, anymore.”_

_Clarke frowned at his wording. “This is just a dream.”_

_"No,” Jake said. “It’s not.”_

It was worse.

* * *

They heard the announcement as Bellamy gingerly followed Charlotte through the trees. Luckily the forest was densely packed, so moving between trees was easier than Bellamy expected.

A change to the rules. An entire District could win, both tributes.

“It’s because of you and Clarke,” Charlotte whispered excitedly. “Everyone loves you two together.”

Bellamy shifted uneasily, although his heart began to pound in anticipation. Clarke was still alive. Both of them could make it.

“Who else is still alive?” He asked. “With District partners.”

“Delano and Indra,” Charlotte whispered, “from District 4. Harper and Murphy from District 3, although I don’t think Harper decided to stay with Murphy and the other Careers.”

“Is your District partner still alive?”

“Atom?” Charlotte paused. “I think so.”

“We’ll need to find him,” Bellamy said.

Charlotte looked surprised. “You’re going to help me?”

Bellamy blinked. “Charlotte,” he said, “if I wanted to kill you I would’ve already.”

“I was wondering why you hadn’t,” she said, her eyes shining with tears at the verbalization of Bellamy’s generosity.

“Jesus, I’m not going to kill you, Charlotte,” Bellamy said, uncomfortable with her tears, that familiar rough pounding of his heart, his anger at the Capitol echoing in his ears. “I’m going to help you get to Atom, okay?”

“But what happens if the four of us are the last ones left?” Charlotte asked. “You and me and Atom and Clarke?”

Bellamy swallowed tightly. “We’ll deal with it when we get there,” he said. He didn’t like to think about it.

They moved silently through the trees until Charlotte stopped him. “There she is,” Charlotte pointed at a flash of blonde hair, far away, in the middle of the field, next to the Cornucopia.

She was on watch.

Bellamy began to move to another branch, but Charlotte stopped him. “Look,” she said, pointing.

He followed her gaze and saw a tracker jacker nest. He gulped. “Thanks,” he whispered, retracting slowly, his eyes never leaving the deadly engineered insects.

It was important that they get to Clarke, especially with the new rule change. He doubted the Careers would let her live for long, especially knowing he was still out there. He certainly hadn’t made any friends in the Training Center.

“How do we get her to us?” Charlotte asked.

Bellamy licked his lips. “We provide a distraction.”

* * *

He and Charlotte needed food, anyway, but Bellamy was sure hoping his gamble would pay off as he stole close to the Coruncopia to “steal” some food. He hoped they would all run after him, and he really hoped that Indra and Delano weren’t as good with their spears as they had bragged about in the Training Center, because he needed to stay alive until he reached Charlotte, who was instructed to cut down the tracker jacker nest.

Ideally, Bellamy would have enough time to relay this plan to Clarke so that she would be able to avoid the nest, but he hoped that she would be far enough behind them that she would see what had happened and be spared.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go as smoothly as he’d hoped.

Off watch, Clarke was in the middle of re-wrapping a wound on Delano’s arm, carefully avoiding getting the murky green substance she was slathering on there on herself, when she saw Bellamy out of the corner of her eye. Her eyes widened.

Bellamy raised his eyebrow at her, and Clarke nodded. He had a plan. This wasn’t a reckless— entirely reckless— endeavor. He was going to separate her from the Careers. Good. She had a feeling that, with the new rule change, they were going to kill her soon.

The downside was that she had only applied the poisoned treatment to Delano. Indra was unscathed, of course, but she had hoped to get to Tris and Murphy before she left— especially Murphy. Indra was merciless in her own way, but Murphy was a snake, sneaky and devious. Clarke didn’t like sleeping while he was on watch.

Calmly, with steady hands, Clarke finished applying Delano’s wound, ignoring the twinge of guilt at poisoning the boy who, by all accounts, wasn’t as terrible as his District partner.

But that’s the way things were.

"This prickles a little," Delano said, frowning.

"It’s this stage of the healing process," Clarke explained. "It’s—- cleaning the wound. It should sting a little. Like rubbing alcohol on a cut."

Delano accepted the answer with a solemn nod and left abruptly. However, upon standing up and around, he saw Bellamy.

"Blake!" He roared, a warrior about to head off into battle. He whirled around for his spear.

Clarke, quickly, while his back was turned, hid it under a pile of blankets and packs. She willed Bellamy to run with imploring eyes.

Turning to run, he gave her a dark look over his shoulder, as if to say, You better be right behind me.

Clarke bent down, grabbed a pack by her feet— filled with medical supplies and whatever bits of food she could steal away over the past day— and ran.

"She’s escaping!" Delano cried to the other three, as though Clarke had been their prisoner.

Well, she supposed in a way she had been.

Clarke could hear Murphy cursing, Indra grabbing her weapon, but she didn’t look back, just ran, zig zagging back and forth like she had learned in the Training Center, hearing stories of animals long ago from faraway lands doing so to outrun their prey.

An arrow whooshed by her ear, nicking it. Another lodged into her left leg, causing her to stumble, knees buckling, but the adrenaline kept her moving, albeit much more slowly.

Clarke let out a cry of pain, and heard Bellamy shout, “Clarke!”

He was already entrenched in the woods and she couldn’t see him. Indra and Delano were much faster and stronger than she, with longer, leaner legs, and she knew they were gaining on her. Luckily, Delano wasn’t very good with a bow and arrow— she considered her wound a lucky shot on his part— and she was glad he hadn’t been able to find his spear. Clarke knew Indra was saving hers.

"Charlotte, now!"

Clarke stopped briefly at Bellamy’s shout, looking up as Charlotte cut the base of the tracker jacker hive and it came crashing down in a dark, angry cloud.

Clarke kept hobbling as fast she could, but her leg slowed her down too much. Although she was in nowhere near the amount of pain she the other four were in— Tris’s cries, in particular, were nearly inhuman in their intensity— but she still caught a few stings.

Delirious and in pain, Clarke stumbled around, disoriented.

"Clarke!" Bellamy was there, clutching at her shoulders, reaching down to her leg. "Clarke!" His arms came around her, he picked her up, and they stumbled around, Clarke thrashing, in the midst of hallucinations.

Suddenly, another cry, from a young girl. A thump.

Bellamy whirled. Charlotte, falling from the tree like an angel, spear in her chest, but it wasn’t Indra who vaulted it, the girl in question rolling on the ground in pain, but Murphy, eyes deadly, with only one tracker jacker sting on his arm.

He must’ve hung back from the others, Bellamy thought wildly, must’ve recognized it as a trap.

Taking one look at Bellamy’s murderous look, Murphy ran.

I’m going to kill him, Bellamy thought briefly, but he had more pressing matters to attend to, and he looked helplessly between Clarke, passed out, and Charlotte, gasping. Hiding Clarke behind a fallen tree, he vaulted over to Charlotte, scooping her up as well, away from the writhing remaining three, the tracker jacker’s gone by then.

Tris was clearly dead, her face unrecognizable with the amount of stings she took, and Bellamy had to look away from her pussy, bloated face.

Indra was crying tears, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, and Delano was yelling unintelligibly, eyes wide.

Charlotte took great, deep breaths, her eyes wide and in so much pain. “Hold on, Charlotte,” Bellamy said, his voice breaking, waves of despair and guilt crashing over him. “Just hold on, okay?”

Bellamy glanced over at Clarke. Her eyes moved rapidly under her lids, and every now and again she would begin to tear up. “Wake up, Clarke,” he said, moving to shake her. “Wake up!”

But it was too late. She was already with her father.


	5. Chapter 5

When she woke, it was dark.

Clarke gasped as she sat up, as though she had been under water for a long time. She was in a cave, and her leg burned in pain. She looked down. Her pant leg had been torn, wrapped around her leg, where the arrow was still lodged in.

Good, she thought. It was smart of Bellamy to leave it in.

Or was it Bellamy? Clarke couldn’t recall much after passing out— for some reason her father’s image swam around in her mind.

"Clarke."

Bellamy was at her side, suddenly, and his eyes were dark and sad.

"Bellamy?" She asked, wincing.

"Can you— I need." He cleared his throat. "I need your help."

"Of course," Clarke said, moving to stand. It didn’t matter where they were, exactly, or how she had gotten there. They were in the Hunger Games and they were both still alive; that was all that mattered, at this point.

As she struggled to move, Bellamy was there, arms around her waist, hauling her up and he carried her. “Err,” Clarke said, “you don’t have to—”

Bellamy shook his head abruptly. “No time,” he said. He carried her further into the cave, where a fire burned.

Clarke’s breath caught. “Is that—?”

"Can you save her?" Bellamy’s dark eyes were so bright in the light of the fire, full of pain and anger.

He set her down, much gently than she would ever have imagined, and she leaned over the little girl, who was unconscious and feverish. He left the spear in her as well, and it was a miracle she was still alive. It hit close to her shoulder, and Clarke hoped it hadn’t pierced a lung. Judging by the ragged way she was breathing, Clarke didn’t hold out hope.

"How long have I been out?" Clarke asked.

"Not more than an hour," Bellamy said. "You weren’t stung that many times."

"Did you bring the pack I had with me?"

Bellamy nodded and went to get it. Clarke opened it and rummaged around, a small, hysterical bubble of laughter in her stomach. She wondered if they were seeing this back home, possibly a first, two people trying desperately to save a competitor during the Hunger Games.

Clarke knew it was in her nature to save rather than destroy; she was just surprised that it was Bellamy’s, as well.

She felt Charlotte’s forehead. Too warm. Infection was setting in.

Pulling out the spear would only make things worse, would probably rupture the lung even more. Perhaps if she had had more equipment, or if her mother had been there, they could’ve operated, saved her life. But in this arena, with these meager tools, there was nothing she could do.

She looked up at Bellamy with shining eyes. He turned away, a hand to his mouth.

"Is there anything," Bellamy said, voice low and catching, "that we can do to…"

"Make it easier?" Clarke blinked, tears on her lashes. "Yeah. Help me move her?" She asked, her voice cracking as well. "We need to… for the sake of the…" _hovercraft_ , she couldn’t say. She didn’t like to be reminded of why they were here.

Gently, Bellamy scooped up the little girl, and Clarke, limping, followed. Outside, it was dusky, a low red sun in the west. The air was warm and Clarke shivered, a false summer.

Clarke pulled out a small vial filled with dark berries. It had been empty the day before, but while she was scavenging in the woods for medicinal plants under Murphy’s watch she found some of these and put it in the vial, just in case.

"What’s that?" Bellamy asked as Clarke began to mash the berries, pouring a little water from her canteen into the vial and mixing the concoction.

"Nightlock," Clarke said, her voice hoarse. "It’s incredibly poisonous. If you eat it, you’ll die shortly after."

"Do you feel pain?" Bellamy asked, and Clarke didn’t have to see him to know he was devastated; she could hear the forced strength in his voice.

"No," Clarke said. "From what I know of nightlock, it— it feels easy. Like going to sleep."

"Good," Bellamy said firmly.

He crouched beside her as Clarke opened Charlotte’s gasping, pink little mouth and fed it to her, massaging her throat so she would swallow it. Badly, so badly, Clarke wanted to throw the stained vial to the ground, hear the glass shatter, a hollow victory, but she knew— the practical part of her knew— that she might need it again soon. She needed more nightlock.

Clarke began to hum, stroking Charlotte’s hair, silent tears running down her face. One of Bellamy’s large brown hands cupped Charlotte’s face, and Clarke looked up to find his eyes wet, too, although he didn’t let any tears fall.

"In peace, may you leave the shore," Clarke whispered.

She heard Bellamy breathe in sharply. It was a saying, an old District 12 farewell that they said to those they loved and lost. A way to grieve.

"In love, may you find the next," Clarke bowed her head. "Safe passage on your travels until our final journey to the ground."

Clarke paused, heaving a sob.

"May we meet again," Bellamy finished, voice breaking on the last word, as Charlotte’s breathing evened out and stopped altogether.

Bellamy leaned forward and kissed Charlote’s forehead, tenderly, as a father would to a child. Surprised, Clarke did the same. She moved to stand, but Bellamy stayed crouched down, motionless.

Clarke let him be for a long while, and then she laid a hand on his shoulder. A cannon boomed in the distance. Briefly, he covered her hand with his and squeezed it, and then he stood, half-carrying Clarke back into the cave.

They didn’t stay to see the hovercraft come for Charlotte’s body.

* * *

"You’re—" Clarke flushed, slightly. "You’re going to have to tie me up." It was night. They didn’t bother going out to see who else was dead besides Charlotte. They had other matters to attend to.

To his credit, Bellamy merely raised an eyebrow. “To hold you down?” He asked.

"Yeah," Clarke said. "You can’t be pulling out an arrow and holding me still, right?"

"Right," Bellamy said, his lips twisting briefly with amusement. "What do I need to do once the arrow is out?"

"I think the arrow is just in muscle," Clarke said, "I don’t think any of my ligaments are torn, which is good. But there’ll be a lot of blood." She gestured to the strips of her other pant leg, warmed by the fire. She had Bellamy wash them as best he could in a nearby stream, so hopefully her leg wouldn’t get infected. "You need to put pressure on it and wrap it firmly."

"Will that be enough?" Bellamy asked grimly.

Clarke shrugged. “It’ll have to be,” she said. “I don’t really have what I need in the pack to treat it, and we haven’t gotten anything from our sponsors…”

Her eyes met his, briefly. They both understood what needed to be done to get sponsor money— and hopefully the medicine they so desperately needed. Food would be nice, too. With Indra, Delano, and Murphy still prowling about, they didn’t want to risk hunting.

Once the arrow was out, Bellamy did the best he could, but he was still dissatisfied. Her leg began to bleed through the strips, taking a while to clot.

Clarke’s lips tightened. Things weren’t looking good for her. “It’s the best we can do,” she declared. “Don’t worry about it, Bellamy.”

He turned incredulous eyes towards her. “Don’t worry about it?” He said. “Are you kidding me, Clarke? Of course, I’m going to worry about it.” Crossing over to her, he took her hands in his. “We’re going home together. Okay? I won’t accept anything else.”

Clarke gave him a slight smile. “And if Bellamy Blake declares it, so it shall be?”

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed. “Now’s not the time to be cute, Griffin.”

"Ah, well," Clarke said, a bit teasingly, a mocking grin twisting her lips, "You think I’m cute, so I’m satisfied."

Bellamy paused for a moment, blinking in surprise, before looking into Clarke’s blue eyes. Her lips were flirtatious, but her eyes posed a challenge.

_Sponsors, Bell._

He accepted.

"I’ve always thought so," he said lightly. "You just never noticed."

"I never noticed!" Clarke laughed. "Come on. _Of course,_ I noticed you.” She teased, “Or have you forgotten my interview so quickly?”

"No," Bellamy said, quieter, looking at her intently. "I haven’t forgotten."

Clarke’s smile slipped, slowly, off her face. “I had hoped,” she said, “for a little bit, when you didn’t— when we didn’t talk about it, that you would forget.”

"I didn’t," Bellamy said, seriously, "and I’m glad I didn’t."

They held each other’s gaze, and Clarke briefly wondered how Bellamy got to be such a good actor. For her part, she was recalling every Capitol soap opera she had caught the Jaha’s housekeeper watching. She wasn’t a love-sick, giggling girl by nature; never had been and never would be. She hoped she wasn’t making a complete fool out of herself. She hoped she was believable, at the very least.

"Why?" Clarke asked, her voice unintentionally breathy.

But Bellamy didn’t answer her with words. Instead, he leaned forward, slowly, his hand coming up and tucking a long curl behind her ear. He smiled.

And then he kissed her.

Clarke let her eyes slide shut, and felt his long dark lashes brush her cheeks as he did the same. She had kissed boys-- and girls--before— small, experimental pecks, with only a couple progress to a slight friction of lips— and this was nearly the same in surface intensity, but there were nuances, layers to this kiss. Their heads tilted, one way and another, trying to find the right angle. His thumb caressed her cheek; she slid her hand up his neck, feeling his pulse, steady and strong, just like him.

She smiled into the kiss, and so did he.

They kissed leisurely, slowly, as though they had all the time in the world, as if their days weren’t numbered and they weren’t in a cave with a dying fire, but in a bedroom, a dark corner, cozy and safe and warm. Two normal teenagers, without a care in the world, their only concern was with each other.

Hearing a shrill whistle, Clarke startled, but Bellamy pulled away slowly. Even in the dim light, Clarke could see his eyes sparkling into hers.

"Not bad, Princess," he murmured, but he was smiling.

Clarke darted forward, giving him another peck. Unseen to any Capitol cameras, she nipped at his lips a little bit, and one of his hands, atop one of hers on the ground to prop them up, tightened.

She grinned.

"Looks like Marcus approves," Clarke said as Bellamy went to fetch the package.

Coming inside, he ripped the top of the little basket open. Inside were fresh bandages and food. Bellamy frowned at the lack of medicine, but handed her the bandages without complaint.

Tucked in at the bottom of the basket was a note.

_Keep it up. They love it. —MK_


	6. Chapter 6

Why the hell did she volunteer?

It was the first time she had thought it throughout this entire experience, and Clarke already knew the answer, but she couldn’t help but question her actions as she shifted uneasily under Bellamy’s arm as they slept on the ground. She was feverish and warm; her leg wasn’t getting any better. Infection was setting in. Without proper medication she wasn’t going to make it.

Bellamy stirred and Clarke stilled.

Clarke wasn’t afraid of dying; she really wasn’t. But this burning agony was too much to bear. She knew what she had to do. She was going to convince Bellamy to go hunting and when he was gone she would leave. The sponsor money wasn’t worth staying here and pretending, and there must not have been enough of it, anyway, if Kane wasn’t sending her medicine.

Or maybe the Capitol wasn’t letting him.

It didn’t matter. Either way, by this time tomorrow she would be gone.

Or she would’ve been, had not the latest announcement ruined everything.

"That must be why Kane hadn’t sent us any medicine," Bellamy deduced, booking Clarke’s own thoughts. He was sharpening his knives and Clarke was worrying about how she was going to convince him to stay. "Wonder what the others need."

"Delano is probably ill as well," Clarke said. "I’m surprised he hasn’t died yet. I poisoned him a couple days ago."

"Murphy and Atom are the other two left," Bellamy said. "I wonder what shape they’re in." He picked up his knife, and, concluding it was fine, started to tuck it into his belt.

"Bellamy," Clarke said suddenly, panicking. "Don’t do this. It’s not worth it."

He turned incredulous eyes on her. “Clarke,” he said. “Of course it’s worth it. I’m not leaving here without you.”

"Risking your life for me," Clarke said hotly, "isn’t worth potentially not going home to Octavia!"

Bellamy reeled back, as though slapped, and his mouth tightened. “Don’t you dare talk to me as if I don’t know the risks!” He said. He stomped away from her. “Dammit, Clarke.”

"Bell," Clarke worried her lip between her teeth. "I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. But it’s better that one of us gets to go home for sure rather than the chance that neither of us do."

Bellamy was silent for a moment. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

"You have until tomorrow afternoon to get to the Cornucopia," Clarke said. "So you have time."

He nodded brusquely. “I’m going to go skin the meat,” he said, referencing the small animals he caught in traps he laid close to the cave, a safer alternative to actively hunting. “Got any herbs in your arsenal to make it taste better?”

"Yeah," Clarke said, her mind turning, "I do."

It was almost too easy, drugging the food under the guise of seasoning it. He even watched her do it, and Clarke willed her hands not to shake under the deception. She hated lying to him— she had come to think of him from reluctant co-tribute to trustworthy partner— but she supposed that in a way she had been doing so for the entire Games, although one could debate the merits of actively lying versus withholding certain details of the truth.

She used the excuse of relieving herself so that he would start eating first, and, after waiting a few minutes, once she returned his eyelids were already drooping.

Despite his relaxed state, his eyes still flared when he saw her. “Goddammit, Clarke,” he slurred, his anger almost comical in his drugged state. “What the hell did you do?”

"I’m doing what needs to be done," Clarke said firmly, her weight firmly on one leg, ignoring the pain in the other. "This is for the best, Bellamy."

"Like hell it is," Bellamy fumed. "Clarke… don’t…"

She had already turned away; he had already passed out.

Dragging herself through the woods was as excruciating as she expected, but she couldn’t help but whimper a bit at the immense pain. She briefly wondered if she should’ve just amputated her own leg, but didn’t think she would’ve survived— she probably would’ve bled out. And anyway, her leg wasn’t that far gone… yet.

It was dark as she made her way through the forest, and she didn’t know if time moved the same way in the arena as it did in reality, but it was sunrise and she didn’t know if she was lost or hadn’t walked as far as she thought, but she couldn’t see the clearing yet.

Her leg was in flaming pain, and she had to pause every few steps to lean against a tree. Getting to the Cornucopia herself was no longer an option; she was going to have to stick to her original plan and just let herself die.

Maybe she should send up a fire and let Indra or Murphy come kill her, but the idea of letting them ‘win’ like that was too distasteful. A long, agonizing death it was, then.

Stumbling into the river bank, she squatted down and began to take long gulps of water. However, once her thirst was quenched, she realized that she couldn’t get back up again.

So here it is, she thought. This is my final resting place.

Well, at least the cool water felt good on her leg.

She prayed that Bellamy ate enough where he would miss the medicine entirely.

Don’t come find me, she thought. It’s not worth it.

* * *

When he found her, he was going to kill her himself.

Whatever she used against him was strong, and the sun was just creeping up when he awoke. Cursing loudly, wanting to smash something, Bellamy stood and began to run towards the Cornucopia.

He didn’t have time to consider the pro’s and con’s. The idea of comparing going home to Octavia to saving Clarke was too complex and awful to even contemplate. All he knew was that what he told Clarke was true: he wasn’t leaving without her— this arena, this world. He couldn’t go back without her. He couldn’t do this without her.

Bellamy wasn’t sure how or why or when, but he had come to not only respect Clarke Griffin, but rely upon her as well. It was easy to forget that what they were doing wasn’t real. A couple nights before, spurred on by Kane’s note, they cuddled the whole night, talking and kissing. Bellamy knew that when it came to acting and lying, it was easier to stick as close to the truth as possible as opposed to inventing story lines that would be difficult to keep straight and remember accurately later, so when he and Clarke talked about their pasts— a contrived “getting to know you” for the Capitol’s benefit— he didn’t lie. Sure, he omitted some of his more… illicit activities, but otherwise the stories he told her were real. About living with his mother and Octavia in the Seam, about essentially raising Octavia, about wanting things he never thought he could have.

And while he couldn’t confirm for sure, he knew that her stories were real as well. Stories that involved her father, her best friend Wells, knowing she wanted to be a doctor but dreaming about being an artist, painting all day.

He kissed her periodically, like a reminder, like an obligation, but as the night grew later, he did it more frequently, his mouth sloppy and sweet on hers, just because he wanted to. And she would smile sleepily at him, her hands tracing the lines of his shoulder and his face. They both enjoyed the human connection, no matter how forced. It was something they both wanted but never thought they could have, not anymore.

Thinking about her alive made him feel invincible; he could take care of the Murphy’s and the Indra’s of the world, as long as she was still in it.

At the Cornucopia, the hovercraft just dropped the packs in. He spotted his: it had a big number 12 on it. Delano and Indra’s had a number 4; Murphy’s a number 3; and Atom’s a number 7. Bellamy felt a pang at the number 7; he hadn’t had time to grieve Charlotte, and he still didn’t, not like he wanted to, not like Charlotte deserved.

Across the clearing, he could spot Atom and Murphy, and the three of them made three points of a triangle. Indra was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t anticipate seeing Delano, especially if he was as injured as Clarke thought.

To everyone’s surprise, Indra sprung from the Cornucopia itself, nimbly grabbing her bag and running for the forest, far away from the other three boys. She looked over her shoulder, once, as she ran, and her eyes connected with Bellamy. Hate burned in them and he understood what her fierce look was: a warning. If his partner ended up killing hers, it would mean revenge on both of them.

Bellamy nodded. He wasn’t afraid of Indra.

Murphy and Atom were looking at each other, psyching the other out, so Bellamy took his chance and ran to the Cornucopia, pumping his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Murphy doing the same. Bellamy grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder, but, bent at the waist, he was vulnerable, and that was when Murphy came in, using his momentum to shove into Bellamy’s body, charging like a bull, his head in Bellamy’s stomach.

Bellamy was stronger than the weasel-y boy, but Murphy was smart, straddling Bellamy and grasping his throat, choking him. Bellamy tried to pry Murphy’s hands off of him, but the maniacal tribute wouldn’t budge.

"Oh, Blake," Murphy spat, "I can’t tell you how glad I am that things are happening this way. I offered you— I offered you an alliance in that training center, and what did you do?" He laughed, madness tinged with hysteria, "You scoffed and walked away! As though I was weak. As though you were better than me." Murphy sneered. "But I’m not. I’m stronger than you, I’m stronger than you’ll ever be. I’ve killed people, more than anyone else in this miserable farce of a competition. Like," he leaned his face close to Bellamy’s, which was rapidly turning purple, "like your little friend, Charlotte? Oh, she was the easiest one of all. And you two thought you were so clever, your stupid little trick. But I saw right through—"

Murphy was thrown off of Bellamy, then, and as he rolled to his side, sputtering, Murphy swung to see Atom, an ax pointed at his face. “You were the one that killed Charlotte,” hissed Atom. “You were the one who killed my cousin?”

Murphy began to sputter. Atom wasn’t much bigger than Murphy, but he was strong, and he knew how to wield an ax. “No, no, it was Bellamy—”

"From what I heard," Atom jerked his chin to Bellamy, who was sat, weight on his hands, ready to spring up and flee, "he actually protected Charlotte. He and his partner." Atom, keeping his gaze on Murphy, addressed Bellamy. "Get out of here, Blake." He said. "This is my thanks. But just this once, we clear?"

Bellamy nodded, then cleared his throat. “Clear.” He almost said thanks, but thought it was too much. He took the pack and ran, unable to block out Murphy’s screams behind him.

* * *

He didn’t know what was worse: the fact that Clarke left or that she didn’t make it to the Cornucopia. She had confessed the night before that her sense of direction was lacking, and once Bellamy heard not one, but two cannons boom, he was afraid that she was the second one. She was lost, dead, and he didn’t care who heard, he spent what felt like hours walking around, calling her name as discretely as he could.

He paused at the river, and gulped down some water in cupped hands to quench his dry throat. Looking down, he nearly screamed when a crystal blue eye looked back at him.

He blinked. “Clarke?” He asked hoarsely.

"Hey, there," mud moved and Bellamy guessed she was trying to smile. She was completely covered in mud and clay; she had painted herself into the river bank, his brilliant, foolish, partner.

Bellamy was furious with her, he was, but he couldn’t help but crack a smile back at her. “What are you doing here, Princess?” He asked. “Pretty far from your castle.”

"I was pretty tired," she said, "thought I could use a nap."

Bellamy’s smile faded. She sounded weak. “I’m pissed at you,” he said bluntly, “but right now we need to get you better.” He held up the pack of medicine.

"Oh, Bellamy," Clarke whispered, and her eyes traced his features, lingering on his throat, where he was sure there were bruises, in the shapes of fingers, forming.

"Come on, Princess," Bellamy said, scooping her up, then walking into the river with her, letting the water wash away her paint. "Let’s get you home."


	7. Chapter 7

_"Clarke Griffin,"  Camille Flickerman, the nation's darling talk show host, raked lavender eyes over the District 12 tribute. Clarke repressed a shiver. Camille was perfectly charming, but her gaze was arresting, deadly. She was glad she wasn't going up against her in the Games. "Tell me something no one else knows about you."_

_Clarke kept a smile pasted on her face. Being charming didn't come naturally to her. She was straightforward, blunt. This would be difficult. "I'm an open book, Camille," Clarke insisted. "I don't hide anything."_ Except for what happened with Aurora Blake.

_Camille smiled at her and in the light her teeth briefly looked like fangs. "Nothing, Clarke?"_

_Clarke shrugged. "I want to be a doctor, a healer, when I'm older. I like to draw and paint. I read."_

_"Come now, Clarke," purred Camille. "That can't be everything about your life. There isn't," she grinned, "anyone special in your life?"_

_Clarke knew that she would need to work Bellamy in her interview somewhere, but she still dreaded actually doing it. She hated lying-- she wasn't terrible at it, but doing it ate away at her. Plus, she knew next to nothing about love. Clarke wasn't a girl who the boys flocked to, nor was she the type of girl who flocked to boys._

_"Um," she stammered, flushing. God, this was mortifying._

_"I knew it!" Crowed Camille. "Who is it, dear Clarke? Does he even know of your love?"_

_Clarke thought that Camille jumped to 'love' rather quickly, but she supposed that was the theatrics involved. "N-no," Clarke said. "He has no idea."_

_"Then you must tell him!" Camille said. "Right here, right now!" She looked out into her audience. "Don't you agree?"_

_The crowd went wild._

_"Here's what you do, Clarke," Camille said, with all the wisdom of an elder sister, "you're going to tell him you're going back to him, Clarke, that you're going to win the Hunger Games for him. How can he not love you after such a statement?" Camille glowed under the prospect, lighting up in a genuine glee that surprised even Clarke._

_"You're right, Camille," Clarke said, but her smile was sad. "I'm sure it would."_

_"What's wrong?" Camille picked up on her mood immediately, wilting like a flower. "Is he with someone else?"_

_"I don't know," Clarke said. "I know a lot of girls like him, though."_

_Camille waved her hand. "Psh," she said, "why wouldn't he love you? You're beautiful, smart, brave."_

_"Thank you, Camille," Clarke said graciously. "But that's not the problem."_

_Camille blinked. "Then what is?"_

_"Winning the Games wouldn't help me," Clarke said softly. "You see... he came here with me."_

_There was a moment of horrified silence as both Camille and the audience let that statement sink in. Time slowed; Clarke glanced over at Bellamy, standing in the wings, and their gazes caught and held. His mouth was agape, his dark eyes wide and almost vulnerable. In that moment something passed between them, something so tangible Clarke wanted to reach out and hold onto it for dear life, whatever it was._

_What Clarke didn't expect, after that moment of silence passed, that the crowd-- and Camille-- would go wild with sadness and anger._

_Everything after that was a blur; in her mind all she saw was Bellamy's face._

* * *

Luckily, because of Clarke's medical background, Kane-- and the Capitol-- included more than just medicine to treat her leg wound. Gauze, bandages, antiseptic, alcohol, and various medical tools were included in the pack and Clarke, with Bellamy's help, was able to disinfect, treat, and wrap her wound with proper materials. She was fairly sure she would be able to keep her leg-- if she made it out of the arena.

"Don't you ever," Bellamy said quietly, once they were finished, "do that again. Do you hear me? 

Clarke sighed but wouldn't let up. "You were almost killed, Bellamy," Clarke said, her eyes tracing his throat. "I didn't want that to happen."

"You still need to know your own limits!" He snapped. "You didn't even make it to the Cornucopia!"

"Then I was planning on dying where I was," Clarke said simply.

Bellamy's mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. "Dammit, Clarke," he said. "Are you really that selfish?"

Clarke startled, offended. "Selfish?" She said. "Selfish! How dare you--"

Bellamy cut her off. "When I told you that I didn't want to leave here without you," he said, the words twisting out of him like they were being forced, "what I really meant was, you can't leave me here alone."

Clarke swallowed. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears: steady, but pounding, an ominous drum. "Bellamy--"

He took her hands in his. "I need you," he said. "I need you here and I need you when we get home." Their eyes met and Clarke saw he was sincere, pleading. They were playing so many games, but she was nearly positive that this wasn't one of them. "So please, don't do anything like that again."

Clarke nodded. "Okay."

Another cannon boomed. Clarke and Bellamy froze. "Who do you think it was?" Bellamy murmured.

"Well, yesterday Murphy and Delano died," she said. "So only Atom and Indra are left..."

"I bet it was Atom," Bellamy said. "Indra wouldn't go down so easily."

"You never know," Clarke said. "Atom is a good competitor. He could've snuck up on Indra as well."

"Either way," Bellamy said grimly, "the Games are coming to a close. They're going to force the three of us together in a confined space. But how?"

"In the past," Clarke said, slowly, "they've done so two different ways: either through natural disasters or mutts."

On cue, in the distance they heard a howl.

"Time to go," Bellamy said.

"But where?" Clarke asked. She didn't want to wait to be herded there by the Mutts. Running was out of the question for her.

They weren't sure, but Bellamy thought it would be good for them to re-trace their steps, anyway, and hopefully the Gamemakers would give them a clue along the way.

Their clue came in the form of the river where Bellamy found Clarke: where it was once flowing and bountiful, it was now a dry bed. "They're taking away our water," Clarke said, "so they're driving us to a specific source."

"The lake by the Cornucopia," Bellamy said. "Makes sense. It brings the Games full circle, fulfilling the narrative they're trying to create. Also, the wide open space makes it so they can get every angle of the last showdown easily."

Clarke cocked an eyebrow at him, impressed with his thinking. She wondered what the Capitol would think of it, though. He wasn't saying anything that wasn't untrue, but his inherently cynical, detached way of thinking for someone so young could be construed as vaguely threatening.

"Try not to put too much weight on your leg," Bellamy warned, his arm around Clarke, helping her along.

Clarke sighed at his protectiveness and rather needless reminder. "I know, Bellamy," she said, exasperated, but she could feel his worry.

Slowly, but surely, they made it to the Cornucopia, and Bellamy thought it best for them to climb it. "Gives us the advantage," he said to Clarke. "We can see where Indra comes from. And if there's mutts, we'll be at least out of their immediate range."

Clarke could feel that her leg wasn't infected any longer, but she wasn't out of the woods, yet. Whoever came out of those woods, Indra or Atom, she wouldn't stand a chance, not to mention the mutts that surely followed.

It was Indra who burst out from the forest, mutts hot on her heels. Still, the fierce expression on her face betrayed no fear as she locked in on them and sprinted towards the Cornucopia. Bellamy tensed and handed Clarke one of his knives. He swore under his breath. “If I had a bow and arrow,” he said, “she would be dead right now.”

Clarke gripped the knife tighter. She didn’t think she’d ever be comfortable with killing people.

Indra was already up on the Cornucopia, and luckily, the mutts were unable to follow. “You,” she seethed, enraged that both of them were alive. “The reason my partner is dead.”

Clarke looked at her coolly. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have killed me if you had the chance,” she said, although inside she was knotted with fear.

Bellamy narrowed his eyes and made sure that Clarke was behind him as Indra charged him with a war-like cry.

They grappled, and although Bellamy was larger and stronger, Indra had clearly been trained more than he had been, especially in hand-to-hand combat, and soon Indra was straddling Bellamy, choking the life out of him.

Her back to Clarke, the latter quietly scooted towards Indra, knife trembling in her hand. She pounced when she was close enough, stabbing the knife through Indra’s neck. She gurgled, releasing Bellamy’s neck to claw at her own, yanking the knife out before falling, off the Cornucopia and to the mutts below, who, instead of feasting on her carcass, ran off and let it be for the Capitol to pick up. 

Bellamy gasped, loudly, his poor neck nothing but a mass of bruises and fingertips, and Clarke staggered toward him, gingerly pressing her fingertips to his neck as he wound his arms around her and held on, taking deep breaths.

“You’re safe now,” Clarke murmured. “It’s okay, Bellamy. It’s okay.”

The cannon boomed, but there was no announcement.

“I don’t understand,” Bellamy murmured, his voice scratchy. “Why aren’t they telling us we won?”

Clarke stood up slowly, backing away from Bellamy. She understood what was happening before he did.

“The previous rule change stating that there could be two winners from the same District,” an announcement boomed, “cannot be upheld. There can only be one winner for the Hunger Games!”

Bellamy looked at Clarke, horrified. “Clarke.”

Clarke picked up the knife that Indra discarded. “This shouldn’t be a surprise,” she said to him, but her eyes were filled with tears, “they never would let us have each other.”

“No,” Bellamy said hoarsely. “No!” He wasn’t afraid of her hurting him; no, she was too self-sacrificing for such a thing, and Bellamy instinctively knew that while Clarke was manipulative, her actions had shown she would much rather he win than she.

“This is the only way,” Clarke said. “We both know this, Bellamy. You need to be the winner and go home to Octavia. She needs you.”

“ _I_ need you,” Bellamy said, his eyes pleading. “Clarke, don’t do this. I can’t go home without you.”

Clarke dropped the knife and Bellamy sighed, until Clarke reached into her pocket and brought out a vial, filled with nightlock.

Bellamy stalked towards her, and she quickly put it back in her pocket. “Don’t you dare, Clarke,” he snarled.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Clarke yelled at him. 

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes flaring. “We do it together.”

Clarke gasped. “What?”

“I’m not going back there without you, Clarke,” he said. “And you’re determined not to go back at all. So this is our only option.” His eyes searched hers. _Trust me_ , they said.

 _They either get two Victors, or they get none at all_.

To his surprise, Clarke nodded. Taking out the vial, she took some for herself, and put some into his cupped hands.

“On the count of three,” Bellamy said.

“Ok,” Clarke whispered.

 “One, two…”

They brought the berries to their lips.

“Wait!” They both startled. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the two winners of the 74th Hunger Games, Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake!”

They dropped the berries and wiped their mouths on their sleeves. Then, they hugged, Clarke clutching tightly at Bellamy as he closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair.


	8. Chapter 8

It didn’t surprise Clarke that, upon the hovercraft picking them up, that she’s separated from Bellamy. Medicine or no, her leg was still in subpar shape, and she needed medical attention fast. What did surprise her was the reluctance of their separation, how they were almost intertwined—his fingers in her hair, hers under his shirt collar, both of his legs cradling her injured one.

They took her off to surgery, and she couldn’t help but lock eyes upon his—for the first time since the Reaping when he heard Octavia’s name, Bellamy Blake looked lost.

No matter what sort of threats or pleas both Bellamy and Clarke lobbed at Marcus Kane, their drunken, disheveled, grim mentor wouldn’t let them see the other until their interview with Camille Flickerman.

“She’s okay,” Kane tried to placate Bellamy. “The surgery was successful; she was able to keep her leg. She’s healing nicely.”

Bellamy scowled. “Then why won’t you let me see her?”

Kane sighed. “You know how show business is,” he said, and Bellamy knew he was quoting Glass. “They want to up the ante. The excitement, the romance of your reunion.”

“We’re good at pretending,” Bellamy said, surly.

Kane lifted an eyebrow. “Are you?” He said softly. 

Bellamy frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kane shook his head and didn’t answer.

Clarke, despite her leg, which was successfully repaired, and even smoothed so there was no scar, still felt the pain internally. Typical Capitol: they could make something look pretty despite the ugliness beneath. Her prep team had to move her very slowly, and she was wheeled everywhere in a chair. Dressing was painful, and for once she was relieved that they were putting her in a dress for the interview and not pants. She had a feeling she would be in skirts for a while during her healing period.

For the interview, because Clarke couldn’t walk on stage, they had her seated with Camille from the get-go, and would bring Bellamy out later.

Camille was going to go over the entirety of the Games with them together, but to get the audience’s anticipation up, to tease them a bit more, Bellamy wasn’t brought out right away. Instead, Clarke was asked about her friends and family, what she thought their feelings and reactions were to her victory.

“I’m sure they’re very proud,” Clarke said, wanting to say _relieved_ but deciding against it. She wasn’t sure if it would sound neutral or not.

“Of course they are!” Cooed Camille. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to have you home.” And then, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Although they’ll have to share you from now on, won’t they?”

At this the audience exploded into cheers and applause, and Clarke flushed appropriately. Perhaps she was getting better at this acting thing, after all. “I suppose,” she said, looking down demurely.

A periwinkle tinted hand slid into hers. Clarke looked up into Camille’s eyes, which were now the shade of cinnamon. “You haven’t seen him,” she murmured with sympathy, “have you?”

There was no need to specify of whom they were speaking. Clarke shook her head. “No,” she said, biting her lip. “Not at all. I was rushed into surgery for my leg, and… 

“You were resting, of course,” Camille finished smoothly. “Why, you look so beautiful, Clarke!” And the crowd cheered.

Perhaps she did look beautiful. Her blonde hair was clean, blown out into large waves. Her prep team knew she hated elaborate make-up and kept her make-up natural, for the most part, the most extravagant part of her look being fake eyelashes. Her dress was a dramatic change from the seductive, clingy red of the previous interview; instead, it was a gauzy sky blue, matching her eyes. It was soft and innocent, girlish, belying the killer that the Capitol knew her to be. She felt deadened, though. Guilty and twisted. She didn’t deserve to be here.

“Thank you,” Clarke managed, a knot in her stomach forming. She hadn’t thought about her look at the time, but now she sensed that there was something deliberate in her wardrobe and she wasn’t sure what that meant. Being ignorant scared her.

“And I’m sure your dashing fellow Victor will feel the same way. Why don’t we ask him just to be sure, shall we? Ladies and gentlemen, your Victor, Bellamy Blake!”

He _was_ dashing, thought Clarke, and they had used light colors on him as well, complementary to hers. He was in a light grey suit that fit him well, pipe-lined in a darker blue than Clarke’s. His dark curls had been trimmed, but his prep team was smart enough to use only a touch of mousse, so his curls seemed artfully natural. His eyes searched her out, completely ignoring Camille, and Clarke wanted to stand, her face lighting up in a smile before she knew what she was about, but he, instinctively, seemed to understand her intentions and crossed over to her, getting on his knees before her, clasping her hands in his, his brown eyes shining into hers.

“Bellamy,” Clarke choked out, her hands untangling from his to cup his face, as he wound his arms around her waist. She hadn’t realized in that moment how unbearable it had been to be apart from him. He was the only one who understood, even more than Marcus Kane, about what it was like in the arena. Bellamy was the anchor in a sea of trauma, the one thing she could count on. Perhaps this co-dependency should have scared her, but she was so bewildered at being alive, she just wanted to hold on to the one person she could trust completely. 

“Hey,” he murmured, their foreheads touching, “it’s okay. I’m here. Are you—are you?”

“I’m okay,” she said, “I’m okay, Bellamy.” The protector, as he always was. But she would protect him, too.

It was a long moment before they realized that the audience, while originally screaming and crying at his appearance, had quieted down to silence, waiting with bated breath at the display between the two Victors. Even Camille seemed reluctant to step in.

“Well,” she said softly, her eyes glistening, as Bellamy took a seat next to Clarke on the sofa. “If that wasn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” and Clarke, for some reason, couldn’t help but believe her sincerity. “I hate to—to intrude upon your reunion, but I know our audience, both here and at home, have a lot of questions." 

With his hand tightening on hers, they both endured reliving the Games again, the first round of many, Kane had told them. 

Everything was shown—their Reaping, first with Bellamy’s stoic figure, back straight as he marched up to the stage, and then with Clarke calmly standing, and in a clear, loud voice, saying she volunteered for the shaking Octavia Blake; their entrance in the opening ceremonies, an inner intensity matched only by the flames of their costumes; their impressive training scores, and of course, Clarke’s infamous interview in which she confessed her feelings for Bellamy. Here Camille was eager to get Bellamy’s take on the interview. Bellamy, Clarke was surprised to see, had endeavored to become much more charming than he was in his last, surly interview, and again the knot in her stomach, which had loosened with his appearance, tightened again. He had made a conscious choice to change: why? She was even more surprised to see how good he was at making Camille laugh and blush as he talked about how surprised he was at her admission, how he had never thought Clarke had noticed him in any way, how he had always thought she was smart and kind and gorgeous. It seemed so sincere, so believable, that Clarke almost believed it herself—

No. Bellamy Blake didn’t love her, she didn’t love him, and after she told him her secret, he wouldn’t ever look at her with such kindness and affection again (and she would deserve it, oh, she would deserve it.)

Camille finally moved on to the Games themselves, talking about Clarke’s alliance with the Careers and her ingenious sabotage with the poisoned bandages, and then about Bellamy’s alliance with Charlotte. Clarke was surprised to see Bellamy whisper her name on that very first night, just as they had joked about, but the look on his face was too sincere for it to be a joke, and Bellamy was shocked when he heard Clarke tell the Careers about why she loved him. It was as though Clarke not only loved him, but truly understood him, and for that he was baffled. Weren't they just pretending? The lines were blurring so much and it was difficult to keep track. But there was no time to reflect on it, as the footage continued. Bellamy’s hand squeezed Clarke’s so tightly as the footage played of Charlotte, getting separated at the Cornucopia from her partner and cousin, Atom, and her finding Bellamy, trusting him because she knew he was Clarke’s partner and Clarke had been kind to her in the Training Center.

Their time in the cave was reviewed as well, and Clarke could feel herself flushing at the shots of them kissing in that cave. Even though they were both aware they were on camera, there was something so wrong, so perverse about seeing it played back for them now.

Clarke’s drugging of Bellamy and her suicide escape were shown, and she could feel Bellamy’s thumb sweeping over her knuckles. She squeezed his hand in apology, and then in fear, at his near strangulation by Murphy. And then, in the end, once Indra had finally died and they were about to be separated again.

“What we were you feeling?” Camille wanted to know, addressing both of them. “In those moments, before and after deciding to take the berries?”

“Bellamy being the Victor was always the plan for me,” Clarke said firmly. “Whether I was one or not was irrelevant.” She didn’t refer to her near blasphemous words of the Capitol never letting them be together. “I was just doing what I had to do.”

“And so was I,” Bellamy interjected fiercely. “I had become so focused on the idea that Clarke and I were going home together… when that was, um, altered, I couldn’t handle it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go on without her.”

At that the audience, “awwww”’d at that. Even Camille had to wipe away a tear. “Well, here you are,” she beamed. “Together forever!”

Clarke’s stomach clenched up to the point where she nearly felt nauseous. The words weren’t a naïve exclamation; they were a prophetic proclamation.

* * *

 Kane was drinking when they met up with him in their suite; Clarke had a feeling his inebriation was real this time.

“You’ve really done it this time,” he said tiredly. “You know that, don’t you?”

Both Bellamy and Clarke tensed; suddenly aware that the other was just as suspicious about their costumes and interview as they were.

“It’ll blow over,” Bellamy said lowly. “They’ve had their show for this year—we’ll be old news when someone else comes around.”

“You’re delusional if you believe that,” Kane said coolly. “What you and Clarke have accomplished is unprecedented—you challenged the Capitol, called them out with a bluff, and won. You might have sold your love-struck story to the Capitol citizens, but the rest of the country—not to mention President Wallace—will see your stunt for what it is: cunning and ingenuity.”

Clarke swallowed. “So what do we do?”

“ _Do_?” Kane laughed. “There’s nothing you can do, really. Hope that he doesn’t viciously murder everyone you love; hope that he doesn’t demand you publicly split-up before selling your bodies off to the highest bidders; hope that the most that will be asked of you is to pretend to be stupidly in love with each other for the rest of your lives and be a mindless puppet, and _perhaps_ you’ll be left alone—provided that you have children as continued leverage.” Kane sighed into his drink. “Hope that you will not look back on this moment and wish you had died in the Games, after all.”

Bellamy scowled, but said nothing. Clarke could _feel_ him thinking furiously of another way, but in her heart Clarke knew that Kane was right—stupid, _stupid_. Once again she had thought of nothing but herself and now everyone she cared about—her mother, Wells, the Blake’s—were in danger. She should have died, thrown the berries in her mouth before Bellamy could blink. But for a moment she was intoxicated by the idea of being alive—of going back home, of being reunited with her family, of being with Bellamy, even if it was a lie for the public. It tempted her and betrayed her from her vows and promises of self-sacrifice. Stupid, _stupid_ girl.

Perhaps Kane was still talking, perhaps he and Bellamy were arguing now, voices raised, liquor sploshing onto the floor, but she was walking away, locked inside her mind, mindlessly heading for her room, a slight drag of her foot, and Bellamy calling after her, Kane silent, watching, and she, shutting the door behind her, slipping off her shoes, laying down in her cloud-light blue dress, staring up at the ceiling.

She wasn’t surprised by the knock on her door. “Clarke?”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to; Bellamy came in and shut the door, padding his way over to her, his feet bare and his jacket off. He sat tentatively at her bedside. “Clarke?”

“What have I done?” She whispered.

“ _We_ did it,” Bellamy insisted. “Remember? _Together_. Don’t put this on yourself.”

“I was supposed to die in there,” Clarke said, voice breaking. “I was never supposed to come out alive. And if I had just stuck to my plan, then none of this would be happening.”

“You’re wrong,” Bellamy growled, glaring at her, “didn’t you hear Kane? Without you, I would’ve been sold to the highest bidder! Become a prostitute at the Capitol’s mercy. At least we have each other.”

A tear slid down Clarke’s face. She wouldn’t look at him. “I was supposed to repay my debt,” she said.

Bellamy paused. She sounded like someone from the Seam. “What do you mean?” He said carefully.

"The whole reason I volunteered was to save Octavia’s life,” Clarke cried. “And to make sure you could get back to her.”

“Did Octavia save your life?” Bellamy asked slowly, realizing that Clarke was finally sharing with him why she volunteered. For some reason he felt terror instead of relief. It had been his mission originally, to follow her in the arena and find out what, exactly, her connection to his family was. He had lost sight of that original goal, and now he was, for some reason, terrified at finally finding out. “Is that what this is about?”

Clarke shook her head. “Octavia didn’t save my life,” she said. “Your mother did.” And now, finally, she turned her head to look at him, eyes filled with tears. “And it cost her her own.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some pretty graphic descriptions of violence ahead, so if you would prefer not to read but still want to know (in very general terms) what happened, message me and I'll fill you in!

Abigail Griffin wasn’t entirely wrong—at the very root of why Clarke volunteered was due, in part, to what happened to her father, Jake Griffin. He was the head engineer for District 12’s mines—a job that Abby hated, but one that Jake, originally from District 3, was brought to District 12 specifically for.

Clarke was fifteen when Jake came home one day, face red and flushed with frustration. A normally placid man, he was agitated.

“What’s wrong?” Abby asked absently from her spot in the kitchen, grinding herbs to make into medicine. She was the town’s resident doctor.

“Just dealing with the Capitol,” Jake spat out, and Clarke, seated at the dining room table, doing her homework, nearly reeled from his tone.

“Jake,” Abby warned, putting down her stone and mortar. He had her full attention now. “What’s going on?”

“The equipment in the mine is old, faulty,” Jake said. “I’ve known this for years, but I’ve managed to make enough repairs to keep it in safe, workable condition. But they’re too old now, too brittle, too rusted. There’s only so much I can do and it’s not enough. So I put in a request to get new equipment. I know it’s expensive, but in order to keep the mines running smoothly and safely, it needs to be done. I laid out all of my findings, my reasoning, my repairs over the years and why they’re no longer applicable. I thought—I stupidly thought—that if I was thorough and logical enough that there would be no way they could deny me.”

“But they did,” this was quietly, from Clarke.

Jake’s blue eyes swung towards his daughter, his tense face relaxing, drooping, into something soft and sad. “They did,” he confirmed. “They said that the mine wasn’t producing enough coal to warrant such extravagant equipment.”

Even Abby frowned now. “But you said that coal production was up 20% from last year,” she said. “Surely that’s enough…”

“Abby,” Jake said, his voice strained, “it’s never going to be enough for them. We could’ve doubled our coal production and they would’ve said no.”

Abby was quiet for a moment. “Have you talked to Thelonious?” She asked, referring to the district’s mayor and their good friend.

“I have,” Jake said, “that’s where I was just now. He said he would put in a word for me, but, as much as I like Thelonious, he’s not a fighter, Abby. He plays the game. He does as much as he can for the district in small, hard to detect ways. There’s no hill he’s willing to die on.”

“Jake,” Abby admonished, but her eyes were soft and sympathetic.

“Every man,” Jake said, “every woman, for that matter, should have some hill they’re willing to die on. Something in their core that makes them fight. I don’t know if Thelonious has that.”

“Everyone should,” Abby said softly, “but if they did…” She trailed off.

Jake met her eyes, and reached out, gripping her hand. “I know,” he said. And even Clarke, sitting there, looking at her parents, knew the words neither of them could say: If every man had a hill he was willing to die on, then perhaps there world wouldn’t be like this—although, perhaps, there would be no men left.

Things didn’t get better after that, Jake growing more and more restless. He didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning. Guilt ate him alive; he was sending men to their deaths with the sub-par equipment, and even if they suspected, he could in no way confirm it for them. Thelonious, predictably, was shut down, and he was sympathetic, but firm.

“Coal mining is a risk,” he told Jake. “Those men all knew that when they signed up.”

“What a joke,” Jake spat at Abby later that night in the kitchen, Clarke listening in on the stairs. “He says this as though those men had a choice! As though there were other jobs in this godforsaken district for them to do!”

Abby said nothing. What was there to say?

And then, one day, right before Clarke turned sixteen, she heard them arguing. Furiously, viciously, in a way she never had before.

“Think about what you’re doing,” Abby pleaded with Jake. “You’re putting everything at risk—what about Clarke?”

Clarke heard Jake sigh. “I know,” he said, “if there’s one thing that pains me most in all of this, it’s putting Clarke at risk. But I have to think of all of the other children of the miners, too, Abby. I have to think about the District as a whole. This is my hill.”

“No, Jake,” Abby choked. “They’ll come after you—after us.”

“I can’t live with those men’s deaths on my hands,” he said. “Could you?”

It was difficult to put together, but Clarke understood—her father was going to tell the miners. Even if they didn’t have much of a choice on whether or not they wanted to be miners, her father was giving them the choice on whether or not they wanted to stay miners. Riots and strikes would be nearly inevitable, which would garner the wrath of the Capitol. It could destroy them all.

Things happened quickly after that. Clarke assumed her father told the miners, but she never knew for sure; the last time she saw him was when they parted at her school. He walked with her every morning, and then he would give her a hug, and then he would go on to the mines. By the time school let out that day, he, along with half of the entire miners of District 12, was dead, killed by an explosion.

Clarke didn’t think things could get worse after Jake’s death, but she was wrong. Rumors swirled around town; rumors that the explosion was caused by faulty equipment that Jake had missed or overlooked. The explosion was his fault.

It was then that Clarke knew that his death wasn’t an accident; it was an assassination, a way of keeping him quiet, of keeping the other miners from striking, or worse. Those rumors were planted, too, a final punishment to his ostracized family for his betrayal. And with crystal clear clarity, she knew exactly how it happened.

“You told him, didn’t you,” Clarke said one night at another silent dinner with Abby. The third place at the dinner table haunted her.

Abby put down her fork. “Excuse me?”

“You told Thelonious what Dad was going to do,” she said, “and he told the Capitol, and the Capitol had Dad killed. It was you.”

Abby’s face grew shuttered and grey. “How dare you,” she seethed. “You think I wanted your father dead?”

“Well it certainly explains why you and Thelonious are so chummy lately,” Clarke snapped, thinking of all the times she spotted her mother and the mayor together. She had heard things, too, of how they had been childhood sweethearts when they were younger, destined to get married until Jake Griffin came into town…

Abby reached across the table and slapped her.

Clarke stilled. She said nothing, did nothing, but tears coursed down her face, her burning skin where Abby’s touch lingered.

For a long, awful moment, no one did anything, then Clarke wordlessly got up from the table. When she was a few feet away, Abby spoke again. “I just wanted Thelonious to talk some sense into your father,” she said miserably. “I had no idea he would…”

Clarke paused. It was a reasonable explanation, but it didn’t explain—or justify—what her mother was doing with Thelonious now. She kept walking; the damage was done.

She spent more and more time away from home. Ironically, this meant she was with Wells, Thelonious’s son and her best friend. History repeating itself, she thought glumly, except for the fact that she wasn’t romantically interested in Wells at all, and he didn’t care for her in that way either.

One night, she was out later than usual; Wells was sick and Clarke, taking after her mother, was trying to nurse him back to health. She could’ve stayed at the Mayor’s house—should have, in retrospect—but with those nasty (true) rumors about her mother and Thelonious, Clarke didn’t want to add fuel to the fire by being seen leaving there in the morning.

She had on a beautiful blue cloak—given to her by her father the birthday before he died, it was warm and voluminous and Clarke wore it all the time, like a security blanket. She wrapped it around herself as rain began to fall and began the walk home.

She and Wells lived on opposite sides of town—both good parts, but her father was closer to the mines for work purposes. The long way home was through only good areas of town, but Clarke chose to take a shortcut; she didn’t want to be seen by the Peacekeepers.

That was her mistake, because she had to pass by a seedy bar near The Ark, the illegal trading center of District 12, its worse kept secret. A group of men leered at her; they recognized the cloak, too.

“If it isn’t the fallen princess of District 12,” one of the men shouted. “The daughter of that filth, Jake Griffin!”

Clarke stiffened, but kept walking.

“Where you going, sweetheart?” Another called out nastily. “Too good for us? Think you’re still so much better than us, even though your daddy’s the Capitol’s whore and your mother’s the mayor’s whore!”

Clarke said nothing.

“Because of Jake Griffin, half my family’s dead,” growled one of them. “My daddy’s dead, my brothers are dead, my uncles and cousins—I wish Jake Griffin were still alive, so I could kill ‘im all over again!”

“Jake’s not,” said one slyly, “but his daughter is.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No. No one will ever know who did it—you think Shumway would care? He hates the Griffin’s, too.”

Clarke broke into a run, and, as much as she prayed they were too drunk to follow, they did.

“Come here, Princess!” They howled behind her like a pack of wolves.

A hand, out of nowhere, jerked her into an alley. Clarke tried to scream, but the hand muffled her.

“Shhh,” came the voice, womanly. Clarke stilled.

Aurora Blake, the town’s main seamstress and occasional prostitute, if the rumors were true, came into view. “Stay quiet,” she said. “It’s all right.”

They flattened themselves against the wall as the men shouted and ran by.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Aurora said when it was safe.

“I know,” Clarke said miserably. “My friend was sick—”

Aurora smiled. “And you would risk hell and high water to be with them,” she said. “That sounds like something my son would do.”

Clarke paused. “Bellamy?” He was older than her, scowling and surly. She saw him smile, once, at his sister Octavia.

“Yes,” Aurora said. “And I’m sure he’s wondering where I am right now, as I’m sure your mother is, too.”

Clarke gave her a brittle smile. “Maybe.”

Aurora shook her head. “I’m sure of it.” She took off her own cloak, a dull grey, and started to undo Clarke’s blue one. “As a mother myself. And as a favor to you and your mother, I’m going to make sure you get home safely. Here, take my cloak and I’ll take yours. If they—if they catch me I’ll reveal myself and they won’t bother me. And they won’t bother you in this.”

“Are you sure?” Clarke was hesitant. “I don’t want you to get in trouble for me.”

Aurora smiled at her reassuringly. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “And I’ll have Bellamy or Octavia bring the cloak to you at school next week, okay? I’ll just say it needed some repairs.”

“Okay,” Clarke said. “Thank you, Ms. Blake.”

“You’re a sweet girl, Clarke,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

Clarke swallowed and her eyes stung. “Thank you,” she said quietly. She hadn’t gotten many condolences. “Why are you doing this?”

Aurora cupped Clarke’s cheek tenderly. “I’m just taking care of you the way I would want someone to take care of my kids, if the situation called for it.”

Clarke smiled. “I understand.” It sounded like something her father would say.

They put their hoods up as the rain came down harder. “I’ll go first,” Aurora murmured, “and when I give you the signal, you come out of here, okay?”

Clarke nodded.

Aurora stepped out, and Clarke saw her hand come up to motion to Clarke, when all of the sudden a figure emerged from the shadows behind Aurora.

Clarke opened her mouth to scream, but couldn’t make a sound as the man took out a knife and held it against Aurora’s throat. “Don’t make a fucking sound,” he threatened. Louder he said, “Boys! She’s right here.”

Three, four men came from another block, and began to circle and leer at Aurora. Her large hood and the dark street kept them from seeing her face, and Clarke was paralyzed. She knew she should come out of the hiding place in the dark alley, but fear and disbelief stopped her. And a voice in her head said all they had to do was lift Aurora’s hood, or hear her speak, and they would know it wasn’t Clarke.

“We’ll make you pay, sweetheart,” said the man with the knife, and in one quick motion he handed it off to another man and then his meaty fists went around Aurora’s throat, through the hood, choking her. Aurora’s hands clawed at him, but he was too strong. The other men began to join in as well, kicking at her knees and ankles, punching her stomach and chest, twisting her arms. It was horrific, and Clarke couldn’t look away, her voice caught in her throat.

“No,” she croaked, but the men were too involved to hear her, saying crude, awful, nasty things to her as they beat her, and Clarke could only helplessly watch as Aurora’s figure fainted in the man’s arms. The other men stopped when she fainted, and then left her in a heap. Only when their footsteps all faded did Clarke run from the alley.

“Aurora,” she pushed back the hood. Her face was pale, ghastly, and Clarke could make out bruises on her neck. She felt for a pulse—weak, so weak.

She had a small pack with her with medicine for Wells, and it was so scant, and Clarke cursed herself for not bringing her mother’s full supply, as any good healer would do, and she tried to revive her with weak smelling salts, and then she frantically tried to remember what herbs she needed to use to help with any internal bleeding—oh, god, was there any external bleeding?

She began to feel through the clothing, but it was too difficult, it was raining, and everything was wet, and—

There it was, warm and sticky, and Clarke’s hands trembled as she began to tear up her father’s cloak, and try and bind the wounds.

A hand stilled her.

“Clarke,” she had revived Aurora, but Clarke wished she hadn’t all of the sudden. It was cruel—she was dying. “Don’t.”

“No,” Clarke’s hold body was shaking as she cried, shaking her head at her own cowardice and Aurora’s sacrifice. “No, no, I just need to bind and put pressure on your wounds, and, I have some—for the internal bleeding—I can carry you home, my mom can fix you—”

“It’s over.”

“No, please, oh no, I’m so sorry, I should’ve—”

“They’d have killed us both,” murmured Aurora, “I would’ve died anyway.”

Clarke began to sob and Aurora shushed her. “Your children—”

“I know,” and regret seeped into Aurora’s voice at last. “Will you—will you look after them? Make sure they’re doing all right?”

Clarke nodded, furiously. “Anything, anything.”

“Bellamy won’t accept charity,” she said, “so don’t let him know, okay? Just make sure they’re safe, that they have each other.”

Clarke promised. “Of course I will. I’m so sorry, it should’ve been me. It should’ve been me.”

“No,” Aurora whispered. “You have a whole life ahead of you.”

“I’ll live it for you,” Clarke cried. “I’ll be brave like you.”

Aurora smiled, but shortly after, her lips relaxed and her eyes closed. She was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Clarke stopped speaking. Her throat was dry and sore, her lips chapped. She watched Bellamy warily; he wasn’t looking at her, but at the ground. His jaw was clenched and his fringe hid his eyes. She didn’t know what he was thinking.

Hesitantly, Clarke began to speak again—“I didn’t know what to do,” she said quietly, “who the best person for help was. I thought about my mother, but… I didn’t know what she would’ve been able to do. And I was closer to the mayor’s house, anyway, so I ran back there and woke up Thelonious and brought him to your mother. He carried her back to his house until we could decide what to do.” Clarke swallowed. “I wanted him to go after those men—I knew enough of their names and what they sounded like to identify them, but Thelonious told me… he said that would only make things worse, for all of us. That if I punished them, then they would come after me and they would come after you and Octavia. I don’t know how much of that was true or how much he was manipulating me, but I was scared. I didn’t know if I could trust him, but I had no choice. As for your mother… Jaha said he would ‘take care of it’ and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. I realized later that I shouldn’t have trusted him, that he did nothing to make sure she had any justice at all, that he paid the peacekeepers to tell you and your sister lies.”

Here she saw Bellamy clench his fists, and he turned his face resolutely from hers, repulsed by her story. He and Octavia were told that one of his mother’s ‘clients’ turned violent after an encounter, but that no one knew who the man in question was. Clarke was repulsed, too, but she kept going with her confession, would continue to keep going until he told her not to—but she seemed to instinctively understand that he felt that he needed to hear this, too, no matter how painful.

“I told Thelonious about my promise to your mother, to take care of you and Octavia, and he told me he would help me, but he—he didn’t. You and your sister went to the Home and I was furious with him. By that point he and my mother had married and I threatened him, told him that if he didn’t adopt you and Octavia or get you out of the Home somehow, I’d—”

It was at this point that Bellamy finally did what Clarke had been bracing herself for since she’d started her story: he interrupted her. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You were trying to convince the _mayor_ to adopt us?”  

Clarke stared down at her hands. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady, “I just—”

She felt the bed shift and then she looked up; Bellamy was on his feet, shaking his head, not looking at her. “I think you’ve done enough, Princess,” he growled, and then he was gone.

* * *

He went up to the roof, because at least in the arena there was somewhere he could run. Here he was trapped, he was an animal in a flood, where he could only climb higher and higher until there was nowhere left and he was just looking at the sky wishing for brighter things.

Kane, of all people, found him there a while later. The sky hadn't changed much, but it’d gotten colder. Summer was ending, another thing dying.

Bellamy was sure that Kane heard everything that Clarke told Bellamy; how could he not? The man was cunning, sneaky; he’s had to be after all of these years. And Bellamy definitely didn’t want to talk to him about everything, especially when he knew that Kane would just take Clarke’s side. He’d known her since a child, how could he not?

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump off,” Bellamy said to distract him and it worked; Kane scoffed.

“I should hope not; then everything we’ve done here would’ve been a waste,” but here Kane shifted, uncomfortable. “Although I can’t say you wouldn’t have been the first.”

Bellamy looked sharply at him. “What?”

“There were only a couple of Victors who died of suicide, but The Capitol covered it up, made it seem like they either succumbed to injuries from the Games, or that they died in some other sort of acceptable way.”

“Fuck," Bellamy swore.

“I know you wouldn’t be able to do it, though. You’re not that type—besides, where would that leave Octavia?” Kane said, casually, but Bellamy’s head snapped towards the man. There was something in his tone that didn’t sit right with Bellamy.

He stood up. “Where _would_ that leave Octavia?” He demanded, despite knowing perfectly well that she would be left alone, again.

Kane’s mouth twisted in frustration at giving himself away, and he turned away from Bellamy’s gaze. “If you had died in the arena… Clarke and I talked. She would’ve taken in Octavia.” Bellamy nodded; it was no surprise, especially after everything he’d heard.

“But if you _both_ had died… I would’ve taken her in.”

Bellamy could’t believe his ears. “ _What_?”

Kane shrugged, still not looking at him. “You forget, I was born Seam. I had a sister once who I would’ve done anything for. You and Octavia remind me of me and my sister, Vera. We only had each other, too. It would’ve been risky, would’ve been more ammunition the Capitol could’ve used against me, but I figured Octavia’s nearly grown, it would’ve only been for a few years until she got married or got into a trade…”

“I…” Bellamy didn’t know what to say. He’l wasn't used to such blatant generosity. He’d never been used to having someone other than himself or his mother looking after Octavia.

“It’s difficult to trust,” Kane said mildly. “I get that.”

Bellamy scowled. Marcus Kane thought he was so subtle, but he wasn't. “How can you expect me to trust Clarke—after everything she’s done?”

Kane was silent for a moment. “Remember who the real enemy is, Bellamy,” he said. “Because it’s certainly not Clarke.” And with that, he left.

Bellamy sat up on the roof a little longer and thought. The enemy—was it Thelonious Jaha, the man who didn’t help his mother? No, he was weak, he was part of the problem, but it didn’t start with him—it was all of the district mayors, the peacekeepers, the Games, the Victors, the whole system. It was President Wallace; it was The Capitol. The real enemy.

He stayed on the roof for the rest of the night, thinking.

* * *

The three Victors of District 12 sat in silence on the train ride back home. Kane just finished giving Bellamy and Clarke instructions as to what to expect upon their return: Capitol reporters would be there when they get off the train and are reunited with their families, eager to capture their arrival. From the train station they would be immediately herded into the town square, where a celebration is taking place. A fancy dinner at the mayor’s house—Clarke’s house—would commence. Then, peace and quiet. The Capitol reporters would leave that night, and Clarke and Bellamy’s houses in the Victor’s Village are ready for them to move into immediately. Octavia would join Bellamy immediately; Clarke would live alone. She already considered asking Wells to move in with her, wondering if Thelonious would let him. But Wells was past Reaping age, was old enough to make his own decisions, and she knew he would if she wanted him to. She just wasn’t sure yet if that’s what she wanted. She felt tainted; unworthy. She felt selfish, like she didn’t deserve to be alive, not after the choices she made, the people she’s hurt—the people she continued to hurt.

The Victory Tour was six months from now, and then the Hunger Games—the 75th, another Quarter Quell—six months after that. And the cycle will go on and on. Clarke looked out the window and regretted not just shoving those berries in her mouth and been done with it.

“If no one has any questions,” Kane said dryly, “I need to go liquor up. Excuse me.” It’s amusing, in a way, how refined Kane really was. He was born Seam but he had more class than any of them, really.

He closed the door and that just left Clarke and Bellamy, and Clarke wondered how long she could wait until it was acceptable to leave, so it wouldn’t seem so obvious that she wanted to get away from him, be as far away from him as possible. She couldn’t even _look_ at him without feeling guilt, without feeling as though it was going to eat her alive—

But hell, what did it matter? She stood up, anyway, eager to get into the privacy of her rooms and nap, even though her hair and make-up were already done to perfection, but who cared? She just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up…

A hand darted out, clasped her wrist, a thumb on her pulse point. “Wait.”

She stilled.

“Stay,” Bellamy said softly, that same plea in his voice, and if she closed her eyes she was transported back to the Arena, to when he told her he needed her. “Please.”

She moved back to sit down and his hand fell from hers. She looked at him, now, and didn’t understand.

Bellamy’s hands gripped the sides of the large chair he occupies and he cleared his throat. “I—I wanted to apologize.”

Of all the things to say. “No,” Clarke said, haltingly. Her voice came out like a croak, her throat dry from disuse. “No, please—don’t.”

“Why not?” And those dark eyes were back on hers again, and she couldn’t look away. “What happened to my mom… it wasn’t your fault, Clarke. None of it was. Those men killed her, not you. You wanted to help, and no one would let you. You’re—we’re just _kids,_ Clarke. There was only so much you can do, and I, I’ve gotten so used to you always knowing what to do, to being in control, that I forgot that. And I’ve forgotten that’s all that I am, too, a kid, because I’m so used to being an adult, for thinking of everyone but myself.  You’re not the enemy, Clarke. You’re my ally, my partner, and you did the best you could under the circumstances. You’re my friend, and I forgot that. I’m sorry.”

Clarke’s hands were clasped, nails digging into her skin, and her jaw was a steel trap clenched tightly so she couldn’t cry. She wrenched her gaze from his and to the window again. The plains and fields of District 11 were giving way to the forests and mountains of 12. “I don’t deserve forgiveness,” she gasped.

“Yes, you do,” Bellamy said patiently. “Of _course_ you do, Clarke. I forgive you. Can you forgive me for how I’ve treated you?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Clarke murmured.

“Yes, there is,” Bellamy insisted.

Clarke looked at him, her gaze watery. “If forgiveness is what you need, I give it to you,” she relented. “I forgive you.”

“And I forgive you,” Bellamy said calmly. “Even if you can’t forgive yourself—yet. I… I miss you, Clarke. I wasn’t lying in the arena. I do need you and I think you need me, too. We were in the arena together and I think we need to see the rest of this through together, too.”

Clarke was listening with rapt attention to what he was saying until the very end. Now she shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said, “you’re stuck with me now. Our lives—the Capitol expects us to, to be together forever, to get married and have kids and play their Games for the rest of our lives! I’m your partner _now,_ but I don’t think you understand that I’m your partner _always,_ for as long as we live.”

Instead of scowling, or getting upset, or leaving, Bellamy relaxed. He looked at her and smiled, as if this was his choice, as if he was looking forward to their lives together, as though they weren’t on a speeding train barreling to god knows what. As if they had all the time in the world to sit here, smiling at each other in the sunshine. “I don’t mind,” is all he said. “I can think of worse partners.”

Clarke scoffed, shaking her head. “You don’t get it.”

“I _do_ get it,” he said, quietly, resolutely. His expression was open and clear. “We’re in this together.”

Clarke shook her head again, and now Bellamy let out a pained sigh. “Get your ass over here, Griffin,” he said impatiently, and scooted over in the chair. There’s a little bit of room left for another person, a smaller person, even if they might have to sit sideways, their legs across the other’s lap.

Confused, Clarke did as he said, anyway. He slung an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close as she got comfortable. She let him and then asked, “What’s this for?”

“I missed you,” he said mildly. “And let’s just enjoy the quiet, okay? We’ll figure everything out later.”

She leaned against him and closed her eyes, felt the ghost of his lips on the crown of her hair. They’re both asleep in minutes.

They didn’t know that Kane stood outside the door and heard every word, didn’t know the warring emotions of pride and pain; admiration and sadness; that combat inside him. He’ll have to let him in on the Rebellion soon—it helped that they trusted each other implicitly, that their loyalty and compassion for each other seemed boundless. They’ll need that, and more, if they’re going to help take down the Capitol. Kane couldn’t say that he was confident about the future, but somehow, it did feel a touch brighter.

Yet even Kane didn’t know what lay ahead—the volatile Victory Tour and Clarke and Bellamy’s subsequent engagement; Dante’s threats to them both; the Quarter Quell that would send Clarke and Bellamy back in with the other Victors and the subsequent decimation of their kind; Bellamy’s capture by the Capitol and Clarke’s despair, driven to near insanity; District 13 and Diana Sydney and Dante’s bitter son, Cage; Clarke’s escape of District 13 and her rogue mission to rescue Bellamy; and the ensuing war that would tear the entire country apart.

He didn’t know that peace was at the end of a long, dark road; didn’t know that one day, Clarke and Bellamy would walk together, united again, hands linked, into the wilderness, never to be seen again, because Clarke couldn’t bear to stay, and Bellamy couldn’t bear to live without her.

For now, in this moment, there was only the train, the subtle rocking back and forth, and Kane poured himself a drink in one room, the ice cubes clinking gently, and in the other room, Bellamy and Clarke slept on, wrapped up in each other, safe, for now, in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! As I've told some reviewers, I don't think I have it in me to do the entire Hunger Games trilogy, so this is where it officially ends and why I gave a very vague overview to how things are going to go for Bellamy and Clarke, but that doesn't mean I'll never revisit this universe-- who knows? One day I may write some snippets that will give a more in-depth look at certain moments during the trilogy. 
> 
> Until then, thank you to everyone who's stuck with this! Originally this was only supposed to be a one-shot. (Oh, those fatal words.) Your support has meant to the world to me!


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